


The Augurey

by La_Matrona



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Because why the hell shouldn't she be competent?, Complete, F/M, Family, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Kid Fic, PTSD, The Cursed Child Sucks and I Try To Fix It, competent Hermione, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:26:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 40
Words: 165,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Matrona/pseuds/La_Matrona
Summary: After the war, Harry Potter is desperate to make sure that not a single life more is ruined by Voldemort's legacy. Aided by the ever loyal Hermione Granger, he makes a decision which will forever change more than one life. An epilogue disregarding, Cursed Child inspired, Harmony romance. Cross Posted from FFN.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Harry Potter
Comments: 152
Kudos: 430





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been reposted from FFN, at a reader's request. <3

**Prologue**

The room was sweltering, but the windows would not open. No matter how many times the midwife flicked her wand at the shutters, they stayed stubbornly put, shielding the room's denizens from prying eyes. A bed dominated the room they occupied, but it was empty. The woman it was meant for was sitting instead on a low stool in the corner of the room, her eyes downcast and her face twisted in pain as she groaned aloud.

"That's the way," the midwife encouraged, keeping her place on the edge of the bed, a safe distance from the laboring woman and her companion.

"Merlin, Morgana, and Circe," the woman swore once the clenching, all consuming pain of the contraction had relented.

"Hush now, you don't want him to hear you like this." The blonde at her side spoke in hushed tones, barely raising her voice above the level of a whisper. Her role, it seemed, was to remind the them all of what propriety demanded.

"To hell with him," hissed the laboring woman, her dark hair swinging forward and clinging to her sweat soaked face.

"Don't say that," cried the blonde, reaching out to touch her sister's bare shoulder, only to be shrugged away again. "He'll hear you!"

"I don't give two damns!" The woman's voice spiked on the last word as another surge overtook her, her belly clenching, her body bearing down involuntarily as she arched forward over her midsection. Her chin touched her chest as she fell from the stool onto her hands and knees.

"Good girl," called the midwife. She stood, circling around to get a better look at the woman's progress. Luckily, she had shed her robes hours ago and was left bare to the midwife's gaze. "Not long now. I can see the head when you're pushing."

A soft knock sounded at the door, and the dark haired woman looked up only briefly at the sound as her contraction ended. Immediately, her sister rose, crossing to the door and opening it a sliver so that she could see the person on the other side. The conversation between them was too quiet for the midwife to hear, and it ended just before the next labor pain came.

"A message for you," the blonde whispered when she returned, stroking the dark haired woman's head as she stilled. "He says you're his for a reason, and that he has every confidence in you."

"He doesn't love me, he doesn't love me…" murmured the sweat soaked woman on the floor. Her sister leaned down to her, pressing their foreheads together and meeting her gaze.

"He does. In his own way he does. Now push."

The woman cried out louder than ever as her body swept her up in its intensity once more. Sensing the end, the midwife dropped to her knees behind her, using a hand to touch the crown of the head visible between the birthing woman's thighs. As the contraction ended, the patch of scalp and dark hair did not recede, and the mother whimpered.

"One more big push with the next one, and it will be all over," the midwife promised.

"Did you hear that?" asked the blonde, and her sister nodded.

True to the midwife's word, the child was born with the next contraction, its head emerging as the mother screamed aloud and its shoulders following with little trouble. Quick with her wand, the midwife cleansed the child as the new mother turned over with her sister's help, before reaching for the babe.

"It's a girl," she said, as she handed the infant over, settling it on the mother's belly. The babe was still attached to her mother by the umbilical cord which continued to pulse visibly.

"A girl," echoed the mother, clutching the child to herself, a panicked look on her face.

"I'll tell him now," her sister said, rising to her feet. "Help her into bed," she ordered as she crossed to the door.

 _Merlin bless this child_ , thought the midwife, beginning to hoist the dark haired witch up towards the bed, _the poor thing will need it._


	2. Chapter 2

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place 

9 August 1997

Kreacher had outdone himself at last, Harry was sure of it. The meal the decrepit elf had cooked for them had been equal parts delicious and filling, leaving the three human occupants of number twelve feeling both satisfied and drowsy as they settled into the drawing room. At the piano, Ron practiced the scales which Hermione had taught him several days before, his long fingers hitting the keys without mistakes. On the sofa near the piano, his teacher sat with her legs folded beneath her and a slim, leather bound book open on her lap. She was studying it with her brows furrowed, an expression which Harry recognized as one of concentration rather than displeasure. For his part, the Boy Who Lived was attempting to concentrate on a hand drawn map spread out atop the coffee table in front of him. The ink was smeared in several places, which he supposed was to be expected given the circumstance under which it had been sketched. There wasn’t much room for true artistic expression beneath the Invisibility Cloak. Still, they had needed an accurate map of the area surrounding the Ministry of Magic, and now they had one, however poorly drawn it was. 

“Has your family always used Ollivander wands, Ron?” Harry looked up at the sound of Hermione’s voice, and Ron paused at the piano. 

“Yeah, I think so,” he answered. 

“They’ve never used other cores? I’m reading a bit about wand lore, and was wondering if you knew anyone who had experience with a wand made with other magical objects.” 

“Fleur has a veela hair in hers, I think, ” Harry offered. 

“Sounds about right,” agreed Ron, “and in America, Dad says they use loads of different things. Of course, that’s probably why their magic is second rate.”

“Second rate?” Hermione questioned, sounding skeptical. 

“You know, all wild.” 

“Have you ever actually met an American wizard?” asked Harry, who have never done so himself. 

“My dad invited one for dinner once when he was on business for MCUSA. Nice enough bloke. Gave me his leftover Knuts before he left.” 

“What was his wand made of?” Hermione asked, and Ron gave her a disbelieving look. 

“I dunno. Not exactly dinner conversation. Wands are private, aren’t they?” 

“Alright, I was only asking.” 

“What are you reading about wands for, anyhow?” Ron stood up from the piano bench and moved to sit beside Hermione, peering down at her book as he did so. 

“Curiosity,” she answered, and Harry looked back down at the map on the table. 

“What are you working on, mate?” He looked up again at the sound of Ron’s voice and leaned back in his chair. 

“Trying to figure out our little problem. I’ve got the sketch, but it’s only part of the equation.” 

“We never thought it was going to be easy,” Hermione spoke up now as well, closing her book and setting it on the arm of the sofa beside her. “It’s the Ministry, not an out of bounds third floor at a boarding school.” 

Harry sighed, rubbing the spot right above the bridge of his glasses that always seemed to ache when he was stressed. Since Kreacher had returned with Mundungus several days ago, and they had learned that Dolores Umbridge was in possession of the Horcrux they were after, it had throbbed nearly constantly. 

“I know.” He sighed. “Believe me, I know.” Silence descended as Harry avoided the gazes of the others, feeling guilty again that he had dragged them with him into this impossible quest. 

“What about Polyjuice?” It was Ron who broke the silence, leaning forward in his seat to rest his elbows against his knees, hands folded in front of him. 

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” said Hermione, before Harry had a chance to dissect what it was Ron had meant. “Of course, that would mean assaulting someone. Multiple someones actually, because I think it’s imperative we stay together.” 

“Well we’re already criminals to them.” Ron shrugged. “Might as well really break a few laws while we’re being hunted.” 

“I’m sorry, Polyjuice?” interrupted Harry. “You want to impersonate Ministry employees and go in the front door?” 

Ron stood to come and look at the map still laid out over the coffee table. “Here,” he said, leaning down and pointing to what they had labelled the employee entrance. “Through the bathroom.” 

“I still think that’s a completely unhygienic place to have an entrance,” Hermione said, sniffing. 

“One problem though,” Harry pointed out, once he was reasonably sure he understood what they were suggesting, “where are we going to get Polyjuice Potion? I know Hermione can brew it, but, as I recall, some of those ingredients were fairly hard to come by the first time.”

“Wait here!” Hermione cried out as she sprang from her spot on the sofa and darted out of the room. They could hear her on the stairs, heading up to the room she had claimed as her own and then running back down. “I’ve got it here!” She said breathlessly as she reentered the room. She was holding her little beaded bag aloft and waving it about enthusiastically. 

“You’ve got Polyjuice in there?” Ron asked, seemingly awed. Hermione nodded with a brilliant smile, and Harry felt cheerful for the first time since he’d realized infiltrating the Ministry would be inevitable. 

“Hermione, you’re brilliant,” he said, watching as she plunged her arm into the bag and rummaged around before withdrawing it triumphantly, clutching a large phial in her fist. 

“I stocked my bag with a variety of things I thought we might need. I brewed this for Professor Slughorn as a side project last year. I’ve got loads, along with some Veritaserum and tons of Healing Potions.” 

“Genius,” said Ron, echoing Harry’s enthusiasm. “We’d be lost with you.” 

Hermione laughed, apparently thrilled, and stuffed the potion back into her little bag. 

“This is fantastic,” said Harry, turning back towards the sketch of the Ministry’s surroundings. He was just about to reach down for it when something across the room caught his attention. A subtle shift, a shimmer in the air, and a sense that something had changed. 

“What was that?” he said abruptly. Beside him, Ron and Hermione quieted, pausing their excited conversation to look, concerned, at Harry. 

“What was what?” Ron asked, withdrawing his wand and pointing it in the direction Harry was facing. His eyes narrowed in concentration. “You hear something?”

“No.” Harry shook his head. “I thought I saw… just there. Something moved.” He pointed in the direction he’d noticed the change, and Hermione came to stand beside him, her wand held loosely in her hand. 

“The tapestry?” Hermione queried, glancing at the large family tree on the opposite wall. “Harry, the faces move about. You know that.” 

“It wasn’t a face,” he insisted. “Something shimmered.”

“Shimmered?” Ron approached the tapestry warily, lifting his wand and lighting the tip to illuminate the ancient cloth. The gold threads woven into the thing glinted in response. Harry moved to join Ron, studying the Black family tree depicted there. He read the words inscribed at the top— _ Toujours Pur— _ remembering as he did the first time Sirius had shown him this piece of his history. He let his eyes skate down the rows of names and the little faces which seemed to watch him in return. He noted a scorch mark where Sirius Black III should have been and studied the area around it carefully. This had been the general area where he thought he had seen the movement, and somehow, the names seemed smaller than they had been the last time he had studied them. 

“Oh my God,” Hermione’s voice beside him startled Harry, and he looked up at her. Her eyes were wide with surprise, and her hand had flown up to cover her mouth. 

“What? What is it?” Ron looked back at the tapestry, his expression concerned, as Harry followed Hermione’s gaze back to the family tree. The spot she was looking at was near the very bottom, just to the left and below Sirius’s name. Harry squinted, leaning slightly closer to read the name embroidered there. 

_ Delphini Riddle _ it read in flowing black script. Harry’s brow furrowed as he followed the line above it up to the names from which it descended. 

“Bloody hell,” Ron swore from Harry’s other side as he finally spotted the names Harry was rereading for a third time. “Thats him, isn’t it? You-know-who?” 

“And Bellatrix Lestrange,” Hermione confirmed, finally having overcome her shock. 

“But what does this mean?” Ron questioned. “I mean, they can’t have… that can’t be their… Merlin, I think I’m going to be sick.” He turned his back on the tapestry, crossing to the other side of the room and leaving Hermione to stand with Harry, who felt rooted to the spot, unable to move his gaze from the new addition to the tree. 

“Harry,” Hermione said his name softly, reaching out as she did to grab his arm. Her touch was comforting and gave him the strength he needed to swallow and look up at her. 

“They have a kid,” he forced himself to say, his voice coming out hoarse in the silence. “They’ve got a kid, and I’m trying to kill its parents. What does that say about me?” 

“Oh Harry.” Hermione wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. “It doesn’t say a thing about you. We’re doing the right thing. He’s got to be destroyed. This doesn’t change that.”

“Yeah,” whispered Harry after nearly a full minute when he trusted himself to speak once more. “You’re right. Not my problem, is it?” Hermione’s mouth pressed into a thin line as she grimaced in response. Ron answered from the other side of the room where he stood with his arms crossed over his chest, a glare on his face. 

“Absolutely not,” he said. “A kid born from those two is likely to be just as stark raving mad anyhow. Don’t even think about it, mate. The thing’s not worth worrying over.” 

Neither Harry nor Hermione responded to Ron’s vitriol, choosing instead to turn their backs on the tapestry and join him on the other side of the room. They headed to their rooms for the night after that, but try as Harry might, he could not get image of the flowing black script out of his mind long enough to fall asleep. 

0-0-0-0-0

Isle of Skye 

10 December 1997

Ron was gone, and Harry could tell that Hermione’s heart was broken. He was not completely oblivious, he knew that something had been growing between his two friends, something precious and fragile… and the argument he and Ron had had— the choice Hermione had made to stay with Harry— it had cost her. 

He tried everything he could think of to distract her. They read, they plotted, they listened to the wireless late into the night and danced together beneath the stars… but still, that sadness remained. He wished, late in the evenings as she lay sobbing in her bed, that he could take the pain for her.

And so he wore the locket. More and more he kept it with him, nestled beneath his jumper, pressed against his skin. Cold, always cold. She didn’t need that misery, not when he could spare her, not after everything she had given to be there with him. Her schooling, her parents, Ron. It was too much. 

When she finally noticed what he was doing, that he’d been wearing the bloody Horcrux for three days to spare her, she lost her temper and snatched it from him, sending a mild hex his way to express her displeasure, and settling the thing around her own neck. 

“Stupid man,” she muttered beneath her breath as she stormed from the tent, wand in hand. 

She didn’t speak to him for two days after that, but by the time she did, she had stopped crying in the night. 

0-0-0-0-0

Malfoy Manor

24 March 1998

She watched the boys disappear through a one of the doors out of the drawing room, held at wand point by Fenrir Greyback. Bellatrix’s hand was still tangled in Hermione’s hair, her long nails scraping her scalp uncomfortably as she held her up, forcing her to watch her only allies disappear down a dark passageway. 

“Now, you filthy little Mudblood, we’re going to have a little chat. Girl to girl.”

Hermione said nothing, her stomach flipping uncomfortably as she stared wide eyed at the mad woman in front of her. The silver dagger she held was wickedly sharp and pressed against Hermione’s neck. 

“Bella, please,” Hermione heard a woman plead from behind her. She thought it must be Narcissa Malfoy. “Tell us why you—”

“Keep your mouth  _ shut, _ Cissa,” hissed Bellatrix. “You’ve no idea the danger we are in.” And with a jolt, she released Hermione, sending her careening onto the floor. She was not quick enough to catch herself, and so she landed heavily on her shoulder. A sharp, throbbing ache radiated from the point of contact down to her elbow. 

“Now, Mudblood,” Bellatrix said, her voice thick with anger, “let me give you a taste of what you can expect if you attempt to lie to me.  _ Crucio _ !” 

This pain did not bloom, it did not radiate from a point of contact or spread, it simply was. Knives pierced every inch of her skin as her muscles began to seize uncontrollably, and Hermione thought she must be dying. The agony was all consuming. She did not realize until after the curse was lifted that she had been screaming. 

“Tell me where you got the sword!” demanded Bellatrix, her voice barely penetrating the fog in Hermione’s head. In the distance, Hermione thought she heard a child cry, and she looked up, meeting Bellatrix’s eye just as she remembered that night at number twelve so many months ago, and the secret the black haired which had no idea Hermione knew. Was this defensiveness over her vault somehow related to to the name they had seen embroidered on the Black Family Tapestry? 

Apparently, Hermione’s thoughts had left her silent for too long, because with a quick step forward and a practiced swing of her arm, pain was blossoming across Hermione’s cheek. She had never been backhanded before, and it stung, but she realized in a heartbeat that she would rather this physical violence than the unimaginable pain of the Cruciatus Curse. 

“I’m going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword?  _ Where _ ?” Bellatrix was shouting now, her eyes wild as she stared down at the girl before her. 

“We found it—we found it—” Bellatrix made to hit her again, and Hermione cried out even louder, “PLEASE!” The blow landed on the same cheek, and in another moment Bellatrix was over her, straddling Hermione’s rib-cage and placing one hand on her neck as the other forced her left arm out across the carpet. 

She couldn’t help but scream, couldn’t do anything but struggle against the weight of the witch atop her. Finally, Bellatrix brought her forearm down over her windpipe, cutting off her access to an air supply and causing her to scratch and claw violently to break free. The older woman eased off the pressure only enough to keep Hermione conscious, and with her hand she pulled up the sleeve of Hermione’s jumper. 

“You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts!”

Hermione shook her head frantically just as Bellatrix shifted off of her neck and the gleaming silver of her blade began to dig into Hermione’s forearm. 

“Tell the truth,  _ tell the truth _ !” 

The dagger painted fire on Hermione’s arm and she screamed again, shaking her head in horror as she realized Bellatrix was carving something into her arm. In the distance, she thought she could hear someone calling her name. 

“What else did you take? What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!”

Hermione had managed to quiet herself to a dull whimper when Bellatrix went back to the beginning and started over on the open wounds the dagger had left on her arm. This time she went deeper, and Hermione heard herself begin to scream involuntarily once more. 

When she had finished, the black haired woman held her blade, already red with Hermione’s blood, up to the girl’s neck. 

“What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME!” And perhaps realizing that Hermione was not planning on answering her, she raised her wand again, still straddling her as she shouted, “ _ CRUCIO _ !” 

Again, the pain flooded her reality in an instant, filling every corner of her experience with a white hot sensation that could be neither ignored, nor properly catalogued. By the time the older witch lifted the curse, Hermione had wet herself, and she found it impossible to stop screaming. 

It took Bellatrix backhanding her again to bring Hermione back to her senses and back to the moment enough that she realized she was being addressed again. 

“How did you get into my vault? Did that dirty little goblin in the cellar help you?” Now, Hermione was certain she heard a child crying somewhere in the distance, and she shook her head to try to ignore it. 

“We only met him tonight!” Hermione sobbed instead. “We’ve never been inside your vault.” And, seeing Bellatrix raise her hand again, she flinched and turned her face to hide her already injured cheek. “It isn’t the real sword! It’s a copy, just a copy!” She knew the words were a lie, but she couldn’t think of anything to say which might appease the madwoman above her. She couldn’t know that the sword was real, couldn’t be given any inkling that they might be hunting Horcruxes.”

“A copy?” screeched Bellatrix. “Oh, a likely story!”

“But we can find out easily!” Hermione turned towards the voice which had spoken, spotting Lucius Malfoy, who stood beside his wife and son. “Draco, fetch the goblin, he can tell us whether the sword is real or not!”

She watched as Draco followed his father’s orders, disappearing down the same dark passage she had seen Harry and Ron go into. 

“You think you’re so clever,” Bellatrix hissed into Hermione’s ear, “But I will find out the truth if it kills you, Mudblood. You are worth less than the carpet you’re bleeding on.” 

“And Delphini,” Hermione whispered, suddenly enraged, her voice hoarse as she found herself staring up into Bellatrix Lestrange’s shocked eyes. “Is she worth more, with a half-blood father?” 

Bellatrix looked nearly apoplectic at Hermione’s words. “How did you—“ 

“The Black Family Tapestry.” Hermione paused to cough. “That’s her crying upstairs, isn’t it?” 

“ _ CRUCIO _ !” 

When the curse was finally lifted, Hermione understood how the woman now standing above her had driven Neville’s parents to madness with a single, unvarying curse repeated time after time. She did not pay attention as the Goblin was interrogated, only continued to lay on the expensive oriental rug, watching her blood drip from the word she had finally been able to read, to the floor. She had been a fool, to mention the child, and she knew that if her birth was as much a secret as she had expected, Bellatrix would not let her live once she had solved the problem of the sword. She felt herself begin to cry again, and let her eyes flutter shut. 

0-0-0-0

Hogwarts Castle

2 May 1998

When it was over, and he had fallen asleep in his old familiar four poster bed, Harry dreamed.

_ He walked quickly toward the cottage, dead leaves scraping the ground beneath his cloak as he moved through the night. The streets were empty, and as he approached the door of the cheery home, it swung open in invitation.  _

_ He didn’t raise a wand as he walked through the house, he didn’t need to, they were already dead. The father, a black haired man with unseeing red eyes, lay unmoving on the stairs. Harry stepped over his body, making his way up to the room he knew would be a nursery.  _

_ The mother, her black hair streaked by premature grey, was propped against the crib, her head lolling grotesquely to the side, her neck obviously broken.  _

_ As he approached, the child began to cry, and Harry forced himself to look at her. She was round cheeked and grey eyed, her thick black curls an unruly mop atop her head as she screamed, tears streaming down to her chin.  _

_ The lightning shaped cut on her forehead accused him as he raised his wand. _

Harry woke with a start, his head swimming as he breathed out a single world. 

“Delphini.” 

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place

July 12 1998

Sleeping under a roof instead of a canvas tent had been hard to adjust to. Somehow, the solid walls and the attic above him began to feel oppressive, and Harry could not shake the sense that they were keeping him in rather than keeping the elements out. This restlessness which had plagued him was not something he discussed with Ron, who seemed to be taking solace in his childhood home as he and the rest of the Weasleys mourned the death of their brother and son. Fred’s absence hung like a gloomy pall over the Burrow, one which affected each of the remaining family members differently. 

Mrs Weasley, who had shut herself into her room for a week following her son’s funeral, had emerged with a renewed dedication to guarding her children’s welfare. The over-protective streak for which she was known had grown more dominant than ever in her seclusion—and Harry found that both he and Hermione were now included in the brood which she clucked over constantly, with no regard for the fact that they weren’t her blood. On the one hand, this unconditional acceptance warmed his heart. This family, with its odd, cramped home and its boisterous activities, was everything he had craved in his childhood. Now, however, an adult by wizarding standards, Molly’s propensity to question his whereabouts sometimes smacked of mistrust. He supposed he could hardly blame her for this, given that the last time he had stayed in her home he had run off with her youngest son for a year, nearly getting him killed on more than one occasion in the process. 

Harry discussed this view with Hermione, who nodded in understanding before reminding him that he was, in fact, of age, and that he was at perfect liberty to make his own decisions, despite Molly Weasley’s watchful eye. Ron, who had heard the conversation, took offense to Hermione’s words, accusing her of undermining his grieving mother, before stomping off to the garden where he spent the rest of the afternoon finding and displacing gnomes. It took several days before Ron was willing to talk to Hermione again, though they emerged from his room looking amicable enough afterwards. 

Still, the conversation with Hermione had, apparently, been just what Harry had needed. Afterwards, he began to spend more time at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, which he managed to ward properly with Hermione’s help. It took nearly a week, but together they were able to dismantle the Fidelius Charm and replace it instead with enchantments to make the place unplottable, to repel Muggles, and to deny entrance to anyone with a Dark Mark. Mrs Weasley, to her credit, did not put up the fight Harry had expected when he told her he was moving his things from Ron’s room to number twelve. Instead, she gave him a curt nod and then insisted on accompanying him there to make sure the place was habitable. Unfortunately, the house was not up to Molly’s Exacting standards, Kreacher having been killed at the Battle of Hogwarts. She, along with Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Percy, had spent the following week cleaning and transfiguring the townhouse into a more homey, decidedly Gryffindor residence. The only Black family heirlooms which remained at the end of their over-haul were the portrait of Walburga Black in the front entrance and the Black Family Tapestry in the drawing room. The first, none of them had been able to remove despite their best efforts, and the second, Harry had insisted be left intact, a request Mrs Weasley had assumed had something to do with the scorch mark where Sirius’s name and image used to be. 

Ron and Hermione, both of whom Harry had sworn to secrecy about what they had witnessed on the family tree the year before, knew differently. 

“Why the hell do you think it’s worth protecting?” Ron had asked, scowling as Harry had blocked his exit from their shared bedroom at the Burrow. 

“What makes you think she’s not!?” Harry had shouted in response. 

“Oh, I dunno, but I think being the spawn of evil might be a dead giveaway.” 

“Ron,” Hermione had interjected, “she’s just a baby! She’s done nothing—” 

“Her parents did plenty,” Ron interrupted. 

“Dammit, Ron. Swear to me you won’t say a word, or I’ll hex you to next week.” Harry, who had had enough of arguing, had raised his wand in Ron’s direction. With a gasp, Hermione had stepped between them, snatching Harry’s wand out of his hand deftly and shaking her head in disappointment. 

“Absolutely not,” she had chided. 

“Hermione, he—” 

“I don’t care what he’s said. He’s your  _ friend _ , and you don’t threaten your friends.”

Harry had dropped his face in shame just as Hermione had whirled on Ron. She was right, he knew she was, but this overwhelming feeling of responsibility he felt towards the orphan he had made… It crushed him. He couldn’t let this child grow up with the same sort of notoriety he’d experienced once he had reached Hogwarts. If the world knew who Delphini Riddle really was… Blood purists would flock to her, and the rest of the Wizarding world would hate her. 

“And  _ you _ ,” Hermione had said to Ron. “Are you so incapable of basic human decency that you’d condemn a  _ baby _ for the sins of her father? Honestly, Ron.” 

In the end, Ron had given his word that he wouldn’t reveal the girl’s existence, and Harry had used his wand to blast the child’s name from the tapestry, along with that of her father. 

Now, a week later, the work on Harry’s new home was done, and they were celebrating with an impromptu housewarming party thrown by Mrs Weasley. Harry’s guests were all familiar to him. The Weasley’s, save for George and Charlie, were all in attendance. Charlie had returned to Romania at the beginning of June, and George was still spending all of his time at Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes, emerging only when he ran low on supplies. Hermione, of course, was there, along with Andromeda Tonks who held little Teddy in her arms, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Minerva McGonagall who, disconcertingly, now insisted that Harry and Ron call her by her first name, as neither of them would be returning to Hogwarts the following year. 

“Hello, you.” Harry looked up at the sound of a soft, feminine voice. He smiled when he saw the speaker. 

“Hello. Your mother’s lost track of you, has she?” 

Ginny sat down beside Harry on the cushy drawing room sofa. It sat against the wall, facing the tapestry which had been so much an object of his thoughts of late. 

“She thinks I’m making sure the loos are all clean for the guests.” 

“Didn’t she scrub those yesterday?” 

Ginny smiled and nodded in response. “Indeed she did. Lucky for us.” And with that, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to his as she wound a hand around his neck and up into his hair. She was warm in his arms, her chest pressed to his as she eagerly kissed him, her tongue tracing the seam of his lips. It felt nice, comfortable. He put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, her breathing heavy as she looked at him in confusion. He lifted a hand, brushing her long red hair away from her face as he gave her a weak smile. 

“Sorry,” he said, “I’m just distracted.” 

“Yeah, that was the point,” Ginny told him, sounding amused. 

Harry chuckled and leaned back against the sofa, raising one arm and covering his eyes with it. “That’s not what I meant.” 

Ginny sighed, shifting to sit beside him, separating them by inches. “You’ve been distracted a lot lately,” she said. 

“I know. I’m sorry,” said Harry. “I don’t know what it is.” 

_ Liar _ , he thought. He knew exactly what it was. The weight of secrets never was light, and yet… he could not bring himself to tell Ginny that the tapestry across the room accused him every time he looked in its direction, and that he couldn’t help but do so whenever he was within sight of it. 

“Right,” said Ginny stiffly, standing and tossing her hair over her shoulder with a sigh. “I’ll see you downstairs, Harry. Dinner’s almost ready, and everyone’s wondering where you got off to.” 

“I’ll be down in a minute,” he said, watching her go and wondering as she went why her kisses weren’t the same drugging bliss now as they had been before the war. Had he changed so much in a year’s time?

He sat only a little longer in the room alone, and when he had worked up the courage, he stood, making his way down to the dining room, bypassing the closed portrait of Sirius’s mother as he went. He heard them all before he saw them. Their voices were merry and carried through the house, and by the time Harry rounded the corner into the room, he already had an idea of what they were talking about. 

“What’s that about filling in the dungeons?” Harry asked as he caught sight of the group of people gathered round the table. 

“Harry, there you are,” said Mrs Weasley, who was settling a roast on the center of the table with her wand. “I was just about to come and look for you.” 

“Sorry.” Harry gave her a tight smile and took his seat between Ron and Ginny. The later barely looked up when he took his seat, focused on her empty plate. 

“William was just suggesting I fill in the dungeons as part of the castle’s renovation, and relocate the Slytherins to the other three houses,” Minerva said once he was seated, answering the question he had posed upon entering the room. 

“Not a bad idea,” said Ron from beside Harry. Hermione, who was on Ron’s other side, made a disapproving noise but said nothing. 

“You disagree, Miss Granger?” Minerva asked, looking amused. 

Hermione looked up, eyes wide in surprise, looking for all the world as if she had just been called upon in class without having an answer prepared. 

“I do,” she said after several beats, and then she looked back down at the table. Harry watched as Ron frowned at her before reaching for a roll in a bowl to his left. 

“Dig in, everyone,” said Mrs Weasley, taking her seat beside Arthur and flicking her wand to set the dishes on the table revolving along its center, as if they were on a conveyor belt. 

The meal passed at a leisurely pace, and when it was done, they all retired to the drawing room for drinks. Andromeda, who did not imbibe, sat beside Harry, settling the warm, swaddled bundle that was Teddy Lupin into his godfather’s arms. 

“Merlin, he’s getting big,” said Harry, staring down at the baby’s round cheeks and the dark lashes fanned over them. 

“That he is.” Andromeda smiled sadly, brushing the single lock of wispy brown hair off of the infant’s forehead. “It’s hard to believe he’s barely three months old.” 

Harry watched Teddy as he slept, his eyes moving beneath their lids as he dreamed, his cupid’s bow mouth pursed as he suckled in his sleep. It really was difficult to imagine the boy was already so much older. The first time Harry had held him had been at Remus and Tonks’s funeral. He’d had trouble seeing the child at first, bleary as his eyes had been, but once he had, and Teddy’s sandy brown hair had morphed into a black mop, Harry had felt a fierce surge of protectiveness. He had thought of Sirius, of everything the man had given him in their short time together. The concern, the love, the offer of a hopeful new life at number twelve… it had meant so much, and Harry resolved then and there to be whatever the boy needed. He knew Andromeda was there for him, that she would raise and love the last marauder’s child, giving him the care and the sense of belonging that Harry’s childhood had lacked… but he didn’t think you could have to many people in your corner, and he knew from experience that one day Teddy would want any connection to his parents that he could get. 

“How’s he sleeping for you?” Harry asked, looking back up at Andromeda. 

“Well enough. Still wakes at night, but that’s to be expected. He goes back to sleep after I feed him at least, which is more than I can say for his mother.” 

“Did you hear back from the ministry about—”“

“I did.” Andromeda nodded, her mouth tightening into a thin line.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said quickly. “I didn’t mean to pry.” 

Immediately, the older woman’s expression softened, and she placed a hand on his shoulder. “No, it’s not that dear. I appreciate your asking. It’s just… painful still. I think it always will be. But I don’t want to stop talking about them.” She sighed and continued. “Dora and Remus have both been awarded Orders of Merlin posthumously, which come with hefty sums from the Ministry’s coffers.”

“That’s good,” Harry said. He’d expected Kingsley would do something of the sort and was glad that Ministry red tape hadn’t prevented him. 

“Yes.” Andromeda nodded. “And in addition to that small fortune, I’ve been given ownership over both the Lestrange and the Dolohov family vaults. Reparations, you see. I believe Rodolphus and Antonin each received a few years off of their sentences for agreeing to that one.” 

“You’ll be cared for then,” Harry said, relieved. 

Andromeda nodded. “I’ll be free to stay home with Teddy, and I’ll have enough Galleons to do something excessive, like rename St. Mungo’s after Ted.” 

“If you need anything more—” Harry began, but was cut off by Andromeda, who shook her head and smiled sadly. 

“We’ll want for nothing,” she assured him. “And your gold is better spent elsewhere. You’ve a life to build for yourself, Harry.” 

“That he does,” came a rich baritone from beside him, and Harry looked up to see Kingsley Shacklebolt standing with his hand outstretched in the younger man’s direction. “Harry, it’s good to see you.” 

“Hello, Kingsley,” said Harry, shifting the sleeping baby into his left arm so that he could extend his right, taking the Minister for Magic’s hand and giving it a firm shake. “Sorry we didn’t get a chance to chat at dinner.” 

“No need to apologize,” Kingsley assured, sitting down on Harry’s right and setting his drink on the end table beside him. “I’m sure you’ve had a lot on your mind. I’m hoping my offer has been one of those things.” 

Harry forced a smile and nodded. “I’m still thinking about it,” he said, looking back down at Teddy, who had stirred momentarily, only to melt back into his godfather’s arms a second later. “I’m sorry I haven’t got an answer for you. I’m still trying to figure things out.” 

“Of course you are,” rumbled Kingsley, “as you should. The offer doesn’t come with an expiration date, Harry. There’s a training class that begins September first—Ron’s already submitted his application to me for a spot—but if you’re not ready by then, you can always start next year.” 

“I appreciate that,” Harry said. 

“Are you thinking of becoming an Auror, Harry?” Andromeda queried, a curious expression on her face. Harry nodded, looking back down at Teddy as she spoke again. “How wonderful. I think you’d really excel there.” And though Harry could sense the sincerity in her words, there was also a sadness. 

“We could really use you,” Kingsley said, his voice earnest. 

Choosing not to respond, Harry watched as the baby in his arms began to stir again, his brows knitting together as he began to arch his little back and wave his fists upward. 

“Looks like he’s going to be hungry soon,” Andromeda said, and Harry looked up at her, offering her his godson with a smile. “Minister,” she said with a nod to Kingsley, taking Teddy into her arms and crossing the room to fish a water filled bottle out of her purse. Harry watched as she used her wand to measure out the formula from the little canister she held aloft, mixing the bottle in record time, and settling into an armchair near Mrs Weasley to feed the now fussing infant, whose hair changed from black to sandy brown as he latched onto the bottle and his eyes fluttered shut in contentment. 

“He’s lucky to have the two of you,” Kingsley said, drawing Harry’s attention as he lifted his firewhisky and took a short sip. 

“Be luckier to have his parents though,” Harry said, sounding more bitter than he would have liked. 

“No arguing that.” Kingsley nodded. “But this war left a lot of orphans, and not all of them have a grandmother and a godfather to love them.” 

Abruptly, Harry felt himself look up in the direction of the tapestry across the room; his eyes found the scorch mark near the bottom before darting away again guiltily. 

“What does the Wizarding world do with orphans?” asked Harry, who had given the question more thought than perhaps he ought to have over the past months. 

“Usually, they go to live with their godparents,” Kingsley answered. “Or, as in your case, with their nearest relative. If no one can be found, the Ministry fosters them with a Wizarding family.” 

“There aren’t any Wizarding orphanages?”

Kingsley shook his head. “No. Nor does the Ministry keep wards. Our world decided a very long time ago that child-rearing was best left to families. If a family cannot be found to foster or adopt a child, the ministry relinquishes them to a Muggle orphanage, but that happens only rarely.” 

“You realize Tom Riddle came out of one of those places,” Harry said, brows raised in disbelief. Kingsley stiffened at the name but nodded. 

“As I said, that is a last resort. I can’t remember the last time the Ministry actually did it.” He paused and glanced speculatively at Harry. “But why the sudden interest in Wizarding orphans?” 

Harry shrugged. “I was one,” he reminded Kingsley. “And my godson is one…” A pause, and Harry forced out the question he had been carrying with him since the night after the battle. “The Death Eaters… did they leave kids behind?” Beside him on the sofa, Kingsley sighed, nodding as his thick eyebrows knitted together. 

“A few. There’s two Hogwarts age kids and a little girl who’s probably four years old. Then there’s the baby.” 

Harry’s heart clenched in his chest, and he struggled to keep his expression neutral. 

“A baby?” he asked. “Whose?” 

Kingsley grimaced and drained his glass before setting it back down on the side table. “Greyback’s,” he answered. 

“What?!” Harry asked, his voice louder than he’d meant for it to be as he looked at Kingsley in shock. “ _ Greyback _ ? As in Fenrir?” 

“One and the same,” rumbled Kingsley, looking visibly upset. “He had a mate that died in the battle with him, and a year old son she left behind with a nurse at the pack camp. We found them there about a week after the battle… He transformed the next night.”

“Merlin, Kings. They infected him?!” 

Kingsley only nodded, and Harry shook his head in disgust. He was glad Greyback was dead. What sort of monster made their own infant son a werewolf? It was a miracle the baby had survived the transformation.

“Have you found someone to take him in?” 

“No. He’s so small, each transformation takes a toll. He’s at St. Mungo’s now, and the Healer’s don’t think he’ll make it past the next full moon.” 

“Fucking Greyback,” Harry swore, and Kingsley nodded in agreement. They sat in silence for several more minutes after that, each man lost in thought as the people around them chatted amongst themselves. Harry was only broken from his reverie by the sound of raised voices near the door. 

“No, Ron, please don’t ask me again.”

“Hermione, wait!” 

Harry looked up just in time to see a head of bushy brown hair disappear from the room, followed closely by Ron, who was red in the face and ears. 

“Excuse me,” Harry said to Kingsley, springing up out of his seat to follow Ron out of the room. He had made it through the hallway and to the base of the stairs he had seen Ron disappear up before he felt a hand close over his elbow. He flinched, drawing his wand reflexively as he turned. 

“Well, that’s nice,” Ginny said, arching a brow at his wand, her curtain of glossy red hair falling down her shoulders as she took a step away from him. 

“Sorry,” Harry apologized, stowing the wand away in his pocket again and glancing behind him at the now empty stairs before returning his attention to Ginny. “What did you need?” 

The redhead looked taken aback by his question, and Harry realized it had probably not been the warmest of greetings. “Sorry,” he said, wincing. “I’m really not very good at this talking thing tonight, am I?” 

Ginny had the grace to give him a smile and shake her head. 

“Afraid not,” she confirmed, and Harry raised a hand to rub his forehead, which was aching now. 

“I think I’m just tired,” he said, and Ginny’s half amused expression faded into a look of confused disappointment. 

“Oh. I thought we could go up to your room together before Mum drags me off, but if you’re too tired…” She let her voice trail off, an invitation if he’d ever heard one. To his credit, he did consider taking her up on her offer. It had been a long time since they’d had a proper snog, and he missed that closeness with her, the way her eyes would flash in amusement and her silky hair would tickle his neck when she pushed his back onto the bed… But his head hurt, and he couldn’t stop thinking about Teddy, and Fenrir’s son, and Bellatrix’s daughter, wherever she was hidden away. 

“Raincheck?” 

She sighed softly but nodded, stepping closer to drop a soft kiss on his lips before turning to head back into the drawing room. “Do me a favor and leave them alone,” she said, pausing before disappearing through the doorway. “They need to work through this on their own.” Harry didn’t have to ask who she was talking about, because she was right, and he knew it. Whatever Hermione and Ron were arguing about, it wasn’t his business. They were no longer fugitives on the run, living in each other’s pockets under the influence of a Horcrux. His friends’ disagreements were no longer his to mediate, because they weren’t just his friends any longer. They were a couple, just like he and Ginny, and they deserved their privacy. 

“Alright,” Harry agreed. “Tell everyone I’m going up to bed, will you? And give Teddy a kiss for me?” 

“Yeah, okay.” Ginny left him alone in the hallway, standing with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a pounding headache. Christ, he needed a rest, needed to stop his mind from constantly wearying him with thoughts of dead parents and orphaned children. Was this was he had fought the war to win? This biting, all consuming guilt which darkened the moments he should be enjoying? Was this space he felt between himself and Ginny his reward for becoming the very thing he had despised his entire life? His dream the night after the battle had preyed on his thoughts every day since. Was he any different than Riddle had been? Did the fact that he had fought for the light excuse the damage he had done? And what had become of the child he had left alone and friendless in the world? The Ministry, it seemed, had no knowledge of her. Was she still alive? He wished for a moment that he had not burned her name from the tapestry, that he could just go back into the room and check for a date of death. No, she was alive, she had to be alive. 

  
In silence, he sent a desperate plea out to the universe.  _ Forgive me _ , he thought, and then he took the stairs to his bedroom, closing the door and locking himself away for the night. 


	4. Chapter 4

The Burrow

31 July 1998

Eighteen didn’t feel much different than seventeen to Harry. He thought perhaps this had something to do with that fact that he’d spent most of the previous year on the run or fighting a war. Whether he liked it or not, he had become an adult the moment he’d left the Burrow--the day of Bill and Fleur’s wedding. An extra birthday did little to add to that. 

Still, despite his general lack of interest in the anniversary of his birth, he was unwilling to deny Mrs Weasley an event to plan, especially one she seemed excited about. “You only turn eighteen once, Harry,” she had told him. “And as your seventeenth birthday was interrupted by that  _ man _ , I think you deserve a day uninterrupted by politics.” That was how he had ended up the center of attention at a gathering which seemed to rival even the best attended of the Weasleys’ parties. 

“I don’t recognize half of the people here,” Harry told Ron as they found a table beneath the marquee which had been erected again after a year of disuse. 

“Mum may have gone a little overboard with the guest list,” Ron agreed, eyeing a pair of Fleur’s veela cousins, who were chatting merrily with Charlie beside the punch bowl. 

“A  _ little _ overboard? I don’t think I saw this many people at Bill’s wedding.” 

Ron shrugged and took a sip of his butterbeer. “Planning things makes her happy.” 

“Well,” said Harry, “when you and Hermione tie the knot she’ll have another event worthy of all this work.” 

He watched as Ron’s cheeks paled and he looked up to meet his eyes. 

“What?” he asked, sounding incredulous. “Tie the knot? What are you on about?” 

“I only meant… well, it seems natural, doesn’t it? You two. I know it’s early, but I thought one day you’d… well, you know.” Harry looked down at his glass, suddenly feeling more than a little disconcerted by the thought of his two best friends marrying. It was odd enough seeing them kiss in greeting, and often when he saw it he was reminded of the way Hermione had laid into Ron upon his return the previous year. He had not imagined, in the long weeks of Ron’s absence, that the brunette witch would ever forgive the man to whom she had given her heart. Sometimes, when he saw the way she held herself in the redhead’s arms, he wondered if she really had. 

“Oh, I dunno,” Ron said, frowning slightly as he began to blush. “I think you and Ginny are more likely to go there before we do. Mum’d be pleased to have you as a proper son, at any rate. 

“I’m not going to get married to make your mum happy, Ron,” Harry said, perhaps too harshly. 

“That’s not what I meant. Merlin. You’re touchier than a venomous tentacula these days. How’d we start talking about marriage anyway?” Ron took a sip of his butterbeer and then looked back up at Harry. “We’re too young to be thinking about any of this. I mean, Ginny and Hermione are both going back to school in September, aren’t they? We’re barely more than kids.” 

“I don’t think we’ve been kids for a long time,” said Harry as he spotted Ginny across the crowd; she was chatting amicably with Dean Thomas. He remembered suddenly that he was a former boyfriend of hers and waited for the off monster of jealousy to rise in his chest. When it didn’t, he breathed a sigh of relief, turning back to Ron, who had become engrossed in watching the veela cousins again. 

“Where’s Hermione, anyway?” Harry asked, and Ron looked up at him with a blush. 

“Running late. I left her upstairs doing something to her hair.” 

“Her hair? That doesn’t sound like her.” Harry furrowed his brow as Ron shrugged. 

“I only know what she tells me, mate.” 

Harry glanced in the direction of the Burrow, wondering as he did so, what Hermione had really been doing. 

“Hullo, Sis.” Harry looked up at Ron’s greeting, his gaze landing on the lithe young woman at his side. He smiled. 

“Ginny. You look lovely.” And she did. Her long red hair fell in a smooth cascade down her back, and a sprig of wildflowers over one ear complemented the pink of her sun dress. 

“Prat,” Ginny said, acknowledging Ron’s greeting before sinking into the chair on Harry’s other side and smiling at him. “Boyfriend. Fancy seeing you here.” 

“At my own party? Truly a shock,” Harry teased. Ginny laughed, and he was reminded of the sunny days they would spend nestled beside the Great Lake in his sixth year; entwined in one another’s arms and satisfied by their proximity. He wondered why he couldn’t recapture that feeling now that he was actually free to enjoy it. 

“Mum wants to know if you’d rather do the cake before or after the dancing.” She propped her elbow on the table and her cheek against her palm, staring at him expectantly. 

“Umm, whatever’s easier for her.” 

“I told her you’d say that,” Ginny said, smiling again. “Shall I make something up?” 

Harry gave her a grateful nod, and she leaned toward him. Her lips were warm against his, but he pulled away just as he felt her begin to deepen the kiss. He cleared his throat. She gave him a disappointed look, her lips tight as she rose to leave. 

Harry didn’t watch her go, only stared down at his hands in his lap. When at last he looked up it was to catch Ron staring at him speculatively.  _ God _ , Harry thought,  _ I am such an ass _ . And his best friend--the older brother of the girl he was supposed to be desperately in love with--had witnessed it. To his credit, Ron said nothing, only sighed and took a long gulp of his butterbeer before standing. 

“I think I’m going to get something a bit stronger. Do you want anything?” 

He shook his head and watched Ron go, nodding in Kingsley’s direction when they caught sight of each other, and surveyed the rest of the crowd. He hadn’t been exaggerating when he had told Ron he didn’t recognize half of the people in attendance. Part of him wondered whether Molly had simply recycled the guest list from the wedding she had hosted the year before; that would certainly explain the veelas’ presence, as well as Elphias Doge and Ron’s Auntie Muriel, both of whom were sitting in the opposite corner of the party with goblets of elf made wine and annoyed expressions on their faces. A further sweep of the tent’s occupants revealed Luna Lovegood talking animatedly with an uncomfortable looking Percy Weasley. She seemed to have backed him against a wall and was waving her wand from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, shaking her head and fishing what looking like a rolled up sock from her pocket to thrust into the red-head’s hand. Harry smiled and stood, thinking he might go and rescue Percy from whatever Luna was doing, but before he could take a step, a familiar voice sounded from behind him. 

“Why, Mr Potter, It is a  _ pleasure _ to see you.” Harry froze, turning slowly until he was facing the person who had addressed him. When he saw her clearly, he grimaced. 

“Skeeter. What are you doing here? I know you didn’t get an invitation.” 

“No need for such vitriol,” the woman chided, her tight blonde curls stiff as she dipped her head in his direction. Harry noticed the Quick-Quotes quill hovering over a parchment near her hand. “I’ve come in peace.” 

“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” Harry said. “Now clear off.” 

“Come now, Harry, it’s taken me so long to start this conversation, it would be a pity to postpone it.” 

“I don’t want to talk to you, Rita, you’re a viper. A little  _ beetle _ who butts in where she’s not wanted and spreads lies around like dung.” 

“Now that’s just hurtful,” she said, pouting as Harry cast his gaze around the party, looking for Mrs Weasley, who he knew would send Skeeter on her way. “All I want is to tell your side of the story, Harry! You’re the savior of the Wizarding world! You’re the Chosen One! Everyone is dying to know what it’s like in your shoes! Help me, help you!” 

“Help you make a quick galleon, you mean,” Harry snapped, turning his green eyes back to pierce Skeeter where she stood. “I know what you do. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the tripe you wrote about Dumbledore.” 

“The facts,” Rita said, her eyes glittering. “And speaking of Dumbledore, Merlin bless him, would you be willing to substantiate the rumors about the role he played in your near death experiences?” 

“I’d be willing to tell you to piss off,” answered Harry, turning his back on the reporter and striding away. He clenched his jaw as he heard the rustling of her stiff party dress, which meant she was following him. 

“Harry, I know we’ve had our differences, but you must know that the  _ Prophet _ only wants to be your friend! You’re a hero! What would I gain by maligning you?”

“Ratings,” said Harry, not missing a beat as he whirled about again to face her. His rapid pace had drawn attention now, and he could hear people murmuring as they began to recognize Skeeter. Good. He hoped they tore her to pieces on her way out. 

“I’m only asking for ten minutes,” she said, pressing on despite the obviously mounting tension around them. “Ten minutes and a cup of tea, and I promise you full control over the final published piece.” 

“Your promises mean nothing to me,” Harry said, not bothering to mince words. 

“What the hell are you doing here?!” Ron’s voice rose above the crowd as he spotted Skeeter, and Harry watched as he rushed forward, stepping between Harry and the blonde haired reporter without hesitation, a drink in each hand and a scowl on his face. 

“Ah, Mr Weasley. A pleasure. I was hoping to catch you as well. Not feeling particularly talkative today, by any chance?” 

“No,” said Ron, “but I’m feeling plenty violent. Want me to give in to that impulse?” 

“I trust you heard that, Minister?” Skeeter raised her voice, calling to Kingsley, who stood several yards away, watching the confrontation unfold. 

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Rita,” he said, his deep voice reverberating through the sudden silence. 

“I see,” Skeeter smiled broadly, waving her hand at the Quick-Quotes quill still floating in the air beside her. Immediately, it darted into the purse dangling from the crook of her arm. “Well, I can see I’ve overstayed my welcome. I’ll catch up with you later, shall I, Harry?” 

“I think that’s for the best.” Harry looked behind him in surprise at the sound of Hermione’s voice, full of steel and a tight anger. When he caught sight of her, his eyes widened. 

“Miss Granger,” said Skeeter, her voice stiff as she seemed to shrink where she stood. “I was just leaving.” 

“What a pity,” Hermione said, eyes glittering as she watched the other woman take several steps backward before turning around and rushing toward the edge of the marquee where she disappeared past the silken wall. 

“Blimey, Hermione,” Ron said, sounding awed. “That cow’s more terrified of you than my threats of violence. I’m feeling a little less manly now.” 

“Well,” Hermione said, “I made an impression, once upon a time.” Harry didn’t try to suppress the smile that came at the memory of Skeeter in a jar. 

Around them, the other partygoers resumed their conversations, leaving the trio in the center of the dance floor to stand in silence, Hermione still staring after the spot where Skeeter had disappeared, and both Harry and Ron staring in awe at her. 

“Hermione, you look nice,” Harry said at last, when he had managed to catalogue the differences between this Hermione and the one he saw on a nearly daily basis. 

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said with a bright smile. She patted the skirt of her dress, smoothing a few small creases as she did so. 

“What did you get all dressed up for?” asked Ron. He was scowling now and looking for all the world as if she had done something to offend him. Harry’s eyebrows shot up as he turned his face away from his two friends. If they were about to start arguing it was not something he wanted to become entangled in. 

“What do you mean, ‘why’?” Hermione asked, sounding affronted. “I’m at perfect liberty to wear a dress and do my hair for my friends—”

“What about that stuff on your face?” Ron questioned, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. “You never put on makeup!” 

“I do too,” Hermione hissed. “When an occasion calls for it, I’m happy to dress up and—” 

“So seeing me doesn’t call for putting an effort into your appearance?”

“Umm,” Harry tried to cut in to excuse himself but was promptly silenced by a glare from Hermione. 

“Don’t you dare try to make my appearance out to be some sort of reflection on you. This is not the 1950’s, Ronald!” 

“I didn’t mean it like that! I’m only saying that you never look like this!” 

“Like what? Pretty?” 

“Guys—”

“Shut up, Harry!” Ron snapped, and then turned back to Hermione. “You’re twisting my words! You know I think you’re pretty.”

“Do I?” Her voice was soft and higher than normal now. “Well, what a consolation. Here I was under the impression that I wasn’t sure whether you found me attractive or not, beings as you never say anything about it—but I’ve known all along how you really feel! Honestly my Legilimency skills are far better than even I could have imagined, as I’m apparently capable of reading your mind.” These last words were spoken on a hiss, and Hermione whirled away from the pair of them, elbowing her way into the crowd and leaving both Ron and Harry in stunned silence behind her. 

“Bloody woman’s gone round the twist,” said Ron after nearly a full minute of silence. Harry, who had just been thinking Ron was rather lucky Hermione hadn’t smacked him round the head for being so incredibly obtuse, cleared his throat. 

“I should probably go make sure she doesn’t do something she’ll regret,” said Harry, and at Ron’s incredulous look he merely shrugged, shaking his head and following Hermione through the crowd and out of the marquee. 

The night air was cool and crisp, a welcome relief from the warmth inside of the tent. Harry looked about for Hermione, catching sight of her in the distance; she was sitting down on a bench inside the Weasley’s back gate. He made his way over to her, settling on the bench beside her and putting an arm around her shoulder. He could feel her trembling, her upper arms bare beneath his hand and cool to the touch. 

“Ron can be a prat,” Harry said, knowing he couldn’t defend his friends words. 

Hermione let out one short laugh and buried her face in her hands, the sliver of mirth melting into muffled sobs. Harry let her cry, his hand rubbing her upper arm in a circular pattern. He remembered sitting beside her, just like this, in the tent last year. She had cried so often those first few weeks Ron had been gone, and on more than one occasion Harry had held her while she let down her guard, the tears soaking his shirt as he let her feel his warmth and wished to hell Ron would have had the sense to treat her better. 

When at last she seemed to have exhausted herself of tears, she looked up at him, her mascara running down her cheeks and her red lipstick smeared just slightly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to make you miss your party. I just can’t stand him sometimes.” 

Harry gritted his teeth to keep from telling her he felt the same. He had to be neutral here. He was a friend to them both, loved them both. Ron was going through a lot, just like he was, just like Hermione. 

“He cares about you, I know he does,” Harry said at last. “He just… I think he has trouble showing it, because he worries you don’t feel the same.” 

“Idiot,” Hermione said, wiping her face with the back of her hand and frowning down at the streaks of makeup left behind there. “Hell. There goes my makeup. So much for looking nice.” 

“I still think you look great,” said Harry, before he could examine his compliment or think better of it. With a blush, he released her, standing and stuffing his hands in his pockets. A sudden, confusing feeling of guilt swept over him, and he bit his lower lip. 

“Thank you,” said Hermione, who had not moved from her spot on the bench. “That’s very kind.” 

“Yeah well, I reckon Ron thinks so too and was just too worried it was for someone else to say so.” 

“That’s the problem with him, isn’t it?” Hermione said, her voice low, her gaze trained on the ground in front of her. “He’ll never trust that he’s the one I’ve chosen. He’ll always doubt me, no matter what I say.” 

Harry had no response for her, and so he stood there stone faced, his hands warming in his dress robes as he waited for her to say something more or give some sign she wanted to be alone. When at last she looked up again, he met her gaze with a warm smile and a shrug. She smiled back at him, sighed, and stood, brushing the creases out of her skirt again and looking at him with watery eyes. 

“Tell me the truth. How awful does my face look right now?”

“Well…”

“Oh God. That bad?”

“It’s just a bit runny is all, all the pieces are in the proper place still.” 

“Very funny,” Hermione said, reaching into the little beaded bag she still carried with her and drawing out a compact mirror which she used to check her face. “Merlin. Hold this.” She thrust her purse into Harry’s hand and drew a handkerchief out from down the front of her dress. Harry averted his gaze as she tended to her appearance in front of the little mirror. When she was finished she looked back up at him. She had wiped the running makeup from beneath her eyes and done away with the lipstick all together, but Harry thought she still looked lovely. 

“Much better,” he said, and Hermione gave him a grateful smile as she stowed her mirror and handkerchief away once more. 

“I’m really sorry about dragging you away from everyone else like that,” Hermione told him. “I know Ginny had something planned with the cake.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Harry assured her. “I was actually hoping for a moment alone.” 

“Oh?” 

Harry looked down at his hands, suddenly nervous. It was true, he had wanted to talk to her, to discuss one on one the thoughts and the dreams which had been plaguing him for the past three months. He knew that between Ron and Hermione—the only two of his friends aware of Delphini Riddle’s existence—she was far more likely to be somewhat sympathetic. Losing Fred had changed Ron. He was still his old self, brave and loyal despite his insecurities, but the death of his brother had honed his disgust with Dark magic to a razor sharp edge. Anything he saw as somehow connected to Voldemort became unpardonable now, and Harry knew that trying to convince him otherwise too soon would do little good. 

“Harry?”

Harry looked back at Hermione at the sound of his name. He gave her a nervous smile and sat down beside her once more, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. 

“I’ve been… thinking a lot lately.” The words came out muffled against his palms. 

“Anything specific on your mind?” she asked, her voice light and cautious. 

Harry nodded and listened as Hermione sighed next to him. 

“Harry, is this about what I think it is?” 

Finally working up the courage to look her in the face, he turned his head so that he could see her. 

“I know there’s nothing I can really do about it. About her. But I just can’t stop myself from wondering what happened to her. There was a  _ baby _ , Hermione. A human being who depended on two people I killed—” 

“To be fair,” Hermione interrupted, “you had nothing to do with Bellatrix’s death. I think Mrs Weasley might be a little upset if she knew you were trying to claim credit for her handywork.”

“You know what I mean,” snapped Harry, trying not to sound frustrated but failing miserably. “Sorry, sorry. I just… I feel responsible.” 

“Oh Harry,” Hermione said, her voice softening even further as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I know you do. That’s part of who you are. You care about people, deeply. Just look at where you are now. You saw me argue with Ron, and you came out to make sure I was alright. It’s in your nature to worry about others, and to try and care for them, to fix them.” 

“Are you saying I’m just trying to make myself feel less guilty?” asked Harry, who had feared as much himself. 

“No,” Hermione said, quickly and firmly. “That’s  _ not _ what I’m saying. This isn’t about your misplaced guilt. This is about the type of man you are. You care about people, Harry, especially people who have no one else to care for them. There’s a reason you risked your life to save Ginny in our second year, a reason you risked your life to save Sirius the year after that. You’ve saved my life on more than one occasion, and Ron’s as well. You saved the whole Wizarding world from Voldemort, and it’s not because you felt guilty, or have some sort of complex. It’s because you’re a good man. You’re the type of man who risks himself for others because it’s right. And if you care this deeply about a child you’ve never met, the child of a man who tried to kill you on multiple occasions, that’s why. You’re following your instincts, the instincts of a kind and honorable man.” Her voice trailed off into the night air, leaving a thick silence in its wake. Harry, who had not been able to pry his gaze away from Hermione as she had spoken, blinked rapidly and cleared his throat before straightening up and rubbing the palms of his chilled hands over the tops of his thighs. He felt Hermione’s arm fall from around his shoulders in the process. 

“Well,” he said, fighting the emotion that was threatening to bubble up and overwhelm him. The last thing he needed now was to start crying. With his luck, Ron would choose that moment to emerge from the tent in search of his best friends, and Hermione would be left in the awkward position of having to explain away Harry’s tears. “In that case, I’ve got something I need to ask you. A favor.” 

Hermione gave him a brilliant smile and grabbed his hand with hers, giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

“You know I’m with you,” she said, “Whatever you need. Then and now.” 

Harry squeezed her hand in return, holding it tight and nodding once. She was with him, his closest friend after everything they had gone through together… He only hoped that the plan that was formulating in his head didn’t make her regret it. 

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**The Burrow**

**5 August 1998**

It was the middle of the afternoon, and the room was warm. The rest of the family was going about their business that morning; Mrs Weasley was in the vegetable garden working with Ginny, and Percy was at the Ministry of Magic with Mr Weasley. Ron and Hermione, however, had been left to their own devices. To Hermione, this seemed like the perfect circumstance under which she could catch up on some reading that she had been postponing, but to Ron, it apparently seemed like an altogether different opportunity. 

“Ron, I really would like to get through these chapters today,” Hermione said in exasperation, clutching the tome tightly to her chest. Ron, who was apparently unconcerned with her revisions, merely plucked the volume from her arms and tossed it onto the chair behind him. 

"You’ve been reading all day. Why don't you try living for a change?” 

“All day? It’s barely half past eleven! It’s not even noon yet!” 

Ron continued unperturbed, dropping onto the couch beside her and draping an arm over her shoulders. “Hermione, I’m not going to let you waste away all summer with your nose in a book. I know you like to read—” 

“I’m trying to study, actually.” 

“But you’ve got the rare opportunity to spend more than ten bloody minutes alone with your boyfriend, and I thought you might like to make use of that time.” 

“Ron,” Hermione sighed and relaxed into the back of the sofa, leaning her head on Ron’s upper arm and giving him a smile. “Your mother’s just outside with Ginny. If they walk in and see us snogging on the sofa, do you really think we’ll be left alone again for the remainder of the holiday?” 

“I’m willing to risk it.” Ron grinned down at her, and Hermione felt a now familiar twinge in her chest. It was the feeling which liked to remind her that no matter how charming or kind Ronald Weasley was to her, there had been a time when he’d abandoned her, and even more times when he’d reduced her to tears. She pushed the feeling firmly away, reminding herself as she did so that Ron may not be perfect, but he  _ did _ care about her, and he was one of her closest friends. 

She gave one short nod in his direction after several more seconds of thought. It was all the agreement Ron needed. In another moment, he was sliding his arm down to encircle her waist and draw her closer to him. His mouth on hers was warm and pleasant, moving eagerly as his tongue traced the seam between her lips, looking for admittance. She let him in with the practiced ease of familiarity. They had spent many evenings since the Battle at Hogwarts together like this, and though they had never been more intimate than a hand below her shirt or over his trousers, the time they had spent together had certainly taught them enough to be comfortable with one another. 

As his fingers traced a pattern over her back, Hermione shivered, the pleasure she felt at his touch dominating her thoughts at last as she let herself sink fully into his embrace. Ron hummed contentedly against her lips as she pressed her chest to his, wrapping one of her own arms around his neck and lacing her fingers through his hair. This was good, she thought, this was right. No matter what reservations plagued her regarding their relationship, here in his arms she could at least forget them. 

“Hermione, are you—Oh bloody hell!” The voice which broke the silence was familiar, but it still made both Ron and Hermione jump, knocking their teeth together uncomfortably as she winced and scrambled to the opposite edge of the couch. 

“Sorry, sorry!” Harry called from behind his hands which were now shielding his eyes from seeing anything further. “Merlin, I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize you were both in here or I would have made noise before coming round the corner.” 

“It’s perfectly alright, Harry,” Hermione assured him, wiping the corners of her mouth with the back of her hand and glancing at Ron, who sat beside her, scowling. 

“Is it?” he asked, and at his sharp tone Harry looked up, his brows furrowed.

“Of course it is,” Hermione snapped. She didn’t like that her first instinct was to chide Ron but was aware that there was no getting past it after all these years. “I told you it wasn’t a good idea to do that here.” 

“Look, if the two of you need a few minutes I can go. Ginny wanted to have a word anyway.” Hermione met Harry’s gaze and shook her head. 

“That won’t be necessary,” she assured him, casting a glance in Ron’s direction which dared him to contradict her. He only rolled his eyes and folded his arms across his chest in response. “I thought you weren’t coming until noon though.” 

Harry gave a sheepish grin and shrugged. “Sorry about that. I was bored at home. Thought I’d come along early to see if you were ready.” 

“There’s really no need to apologize,” Hermione said, standing and looking around for her beaded bag. She thought she had left it just there on the end table. 

“Are you going somewhere?” Ron asked, still looking perturbed. 

“Harry asked me to go to Diagon Alley with him. He’s got to get a gift for Ginny’s birthday and wanted a woman’s opinion.” The lie slipped easily off of her tongue, and Hermione met Ron’s eyes evenly. 

“It should only take us a couple of hours,” said Harry. “I would have asked you, but I know how much you hate going to the girly shops.” 

Ron, who still wore an odd expression on his face, nodded slowly. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said. 

“There it is!” Hermione exclaimed, spotting her purse on the floor beside the sofa at last. “Are you ready, Harry?” 

He nodded, and Hermione leaned down to drop a peck on Ron’s cheek. “I’ll see you later,” she said, feeling an odd sense of relief as she walked away from him. 

“Bye,” he called. She didn’t turn around again before she left the room. 

**Malfoy Manor**

**5 August 1998**

They had both been there before, and so they were not surprised by the heavy, ornate gates which admitted them, or the gilded window casings that sparkled in the midday sun. In fact, the only thing Harry was awed by was the steady pace Hermione kept on her way to the front door, unfaltering despite the things which had been done to her the last time she had set foot in Malfoy Manor. When they reached the door they realized there was no handle, only a pair of heavy brass door-knockers in the shape of peacocks, their tail feathers displayed ostentatiously. Harry paused on the front step, glancing over at Hermione, who nodded in his direction before he reached out and knocked on the door. 

They waited for only seconds before one of the heavy doors swung inward, revealing a diminutive elf in a crisp white pillowcase, the Malfoy family crest emblazoned over its chest. Harry heard Hermione huff beside him and took a small step to stand closer beside her. 

“We’re here to see Narcissa Malfoy,” Harry said to the silent elf in the doorway. She—for Harry was almost certain the house elf was a female—stared up at him for several more seconds before nodding once and receding into the house, leaving them on the front stoop with the dimly lit entryway beyond in full view. 

“Should we go in, do you think?” Hermione asked, craning forward to see into the house. Harry supposed the last time they had been admitted, there had not been much time to study the decorations or the architecture. 

“She left the door open,” Harry shrugged, and then watched in surprise as Hermione stepped through the doorway and into the house, her wand out as she lit all of the sconces in the hall. 

“Wait for me,” he said, following at once and palming his own wand as he crossed the threshold. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Narcissa Malfoy’s voice was high and tremulous as she came striding into the entryway from the drawing room to the left. She was dressed in a set of rose colored robes, her hair pinned back from her face with silver combs as her hands shook in front of her, empty. In a sudden flash of memory, Harry recalled that after her husband had been sent to Azkaban again, she had been stripped of her wand in addition to being confined to the manor, the sentence of home arrest to last until Draco finished another year at Hogwarts. 

“Mrs Malfoy,” Harry said, lowering his wand and sliding it into his pocket as Hermione did the same, “we’re sorry to disturb you.”

“Is that so?” She did not sound as if she believed him, and Hermione cleared her throat. 

“We’re here to ask you some questions,” Hermione said, her tone even. “Please believe that we wouldn’t have come here again if it weren’t important.” 

Harry watched as Narcissa winced, reminded, it seemed, of the last time the visitors in her foyer had been inside of the house. 

“Very well,” she said, voice stiff, “you may come with me to the patio. I’ll have Tottsy set out some tea.” She turned her back on them without another word, sweeping from the room with grace as the little house elf, which they had not noticed on Narcissa’s heels, motioned for them to follow before disapparating. 

The path from the entrance to the back patio was more circuitous than Harry had expected, taking them through the entrance way, down several hallways, into the kitchen, and out through the garden. It was not until Narcissa was motioning for the both of them to sit at an ornate table made of gold and glass that Harry realized the patio was directly connected to the drawing room, and that the reason it had taken them so long to reach was because Mrs Malfoy had led them around it. As Hermione stiffened beside him, Harry knew she had realized the same thing, and he reached out a hand to squeeze hers before letting go and sitting down beside her. 

As soon as they were all seated, there was a small  _ pop _ and a silver tea service appeared before them, the pot lifting into the air of its own accord and pouring three perfectly measured portions into china teacups. Once filled, the cups twirled in the air as they floated towards the three of them and settled soundlessly on top of the table. 

“Thank you,” said Harry, more out of habit than any real sense of politeness. Though Narcissa had been pivotal in defeating the Dark Lord in the end—her lie in the Forbidden Forest the only reason he had lived to defeat Voldemort when the time came—he could not help but remember the way she had urged Draco to identify him last March, or the way she had stood aside while her insane sister had tortured his best friend. 

“Tell me,” her voice was soft and cautious as she spoke, and Harry looked up to see the guarded expression on Mrs Malfoy’s face, “to what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Mr Potter?” 

Harry hesitated, not sure how to phrase the question he needed to pose. If he went about this the wrong way, he might never get the information he needed. 

“This tea is lovely,” Hermione said, drawing Narcissa’s even stare and giving the older woman an awkward smile. The blonde woman nodded in return. 

“Thank you. It’s my own personal blend.” 

Before she could turn her gaze back to Harry, Hermione spoke again. “Is that orange and chocolate in there? Maybe a hint of cinnamon?” 

One of Narcissa’s perfectly manicured brows raised elegantly, and she tilted her head to the side, clearly curious now. “You’ve a keen sense of taste, Miss Granger.” 

“A keen memory as well,” said Hermione, not missing a beat as she set her teacup down down, giving Narcissa a brilliant smile. 

The pleasant expression on Mrs Malfoy’s face only faltered for a moment, a testament to her upbringing, Harry supposed. 

“Yes, I imagine you would have to, with the marks you managed at Hogwarts. Draco was also extremely put out that you managed to outscore him on every exam. Are you planning to return for an eighth year?” 

“I am,” Hermione confirmed. “I remember reading that Draco would be as well.” 

“It is a condition of his parole,” Narcissa said, somewhat stiffly. “Though I would have insisted even if it weren’t. Education is important.”

“I can certainly agree with that.” Hermione set down her cup and glanced in Harry’s direction. He caught her gaze and shook his head as imperceptibly as he could manage. He wasn’t ready to do this, to ask Narcissa Malfoy the question that had been preying on him. He didn’t even know how to begin. He watched as Hermione’s expression morphed from one of caution to determination, and he barely had time to widen his eyes before she was speaking again. 

“I suppose family is important to you as well?” she asked, facing Narcissa again. 

“Hermione—” Harry interrupted, a hint of warning in his voice. If they went about this the wrong way…

“Yes, it is,” Narcissa answered, setting her own teacup down soundlessly and tilting her chin up in apparent defiance. “So if you are here to harm my son in some way, I’m afraid I must tell you that I cannot— _ will not _ —do anything which might be to his detriment.” 

“Other than allowing him to join a supremacist cult,” Hermione said, her words now clipped. 

“If you think you can come to my home and insult—”

“Enough!” Harry spoke sharply, slamming his tea down onto the table so hard that it sloshed out onto the glass top. “We’re not here to insult you,” he said to Narcissa before catching Hermione’s eye and giving her an exasperated look. She frowned but nodded once, crossing her arms across her chest and leaning back in her chair. Harry knew this had to be difficult for her. The last time she had seen any of the Malfoys had been at their sentencing, and he knew that she had been disappointed that the woman who had stood by as she’d been tortured had received little more than a slap on the wrist and a year of house arrest. Hermione had many virtues, but forgiveness was not one which came particularly easy to her, though she did try. 

“Look, I’m not good at this type of thing,” Harry said, folding his hands on top of the table and peering back at Mrs Malfoy. “Your family and I don’t have the best of histories.”

“I’m aware,” interjected Narcissa dryly. “I had thought that your testimony on our behalf, however, might have served to heal that particular divide.” 

Beside him, Hermione laughed. Harry ignored her and met Narcissa’s blue eyed gaze. He was struck in that moment by how very similar her eyes were to Sirius’s. Despite the difference in their coloring, they were the same shape, with the same steel in their depths. He rarely remembered that his godfather had been cousin to the Malfoys, but here, now, the fact made his task all the easier. 

“Maybe it did, a bit. Maybe that’s why I’m here. I need your help, Mrs Malfoy. I need to ask you a question, and I need you to tell me the truth.” 

Narcissa Malfoy’s gaze narrowed and she pursed her lips. “I’m not in the habit of telling lies, Mr Potter.” 

“Good. That’s good,” said Harry before pausing. He looked at Hermione, who gave him a single nod and a tight lipped smile before turning her attention back to the blonde woman across the table. Harry swallowed and forced himself to speak again. 

“Mrs Malfoy, I need to know about your niece.” The words once spoken were simple enough that Harry almost felt stupid for dreading them so much. 

Narcissa looked confused for several moments before speaking, her perfectly groomed eyebrows knitting together as she spoke. “Andromeda’s girl? I’m not sure I ever met her.” 

At once, Harry recognized his mistake. A twinge of guilt panged in his chest as he lowered his eyes. She thought he had been asking about Tonks. Tonks who had died defending him and countless others. 

“No,” Hermione’s voice was crisp and unaffected by emotion now as she began to clarify Harry’s question. 

“We don’t mean that niece. It’s the other we’re interested in. Bellatrix’s daughter.” 

“Bella—I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Despite her words, there was an edge in her voice and in her expression that betrayed her, and Harry shook his head. 

“We know about Delphini, Mrs Malfoy, and we don’t want to hurt her.” 

“Mr Potter, I assure you I haven’t the slightest idea to what you’re referring. I had only one niece, and she is, unfortunately, dead. Bellatrix was never able to have children, you see.” She picked up her cup and sipped from it, her eyes focused studiously on the china rather than the two people across from her. 

“I thought you weren’t in the habit of telling lies.” Hermione’s voice was sharp, and Narcissa looked up with flashing eyes at the tone. 

“I’m not sure I like your accusations, Miss Granger.” 

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Hermione snapped. “I’m stating a fact. You can’t tell me Bellatrix didn’t tell you all about how the filthy Mudblood who bled out on your oriental carpet, knew her secret.” 

“I think I’d like you to leave.” Narcissa’s voice was icy as she stood, and Harry felt a distinct chill in the air emanating from her direction.

“Please,” Harry said, standing to face her and placing a hand on Hermione’s arm when she sprang up beside him. He had known this visit would be difficult for her, but if Narcissa gave him what he was looking for, he would need a third. “I swear I’m not going to tell anyone. Can you imagine the outrage if people knew? I’m not interested in creating an uproar. But I saw the tapestry at Grimmauld Place; it changed right in front of me. I can’t just ignore it. Her.” 

Narcissa’s furious expression softened only slightly as her gaze narrowed once more. “I don’t see why not,” she said, her voice harsh and clipped. “If what you’re suggesting is true, it hardly has any bearing on you now.”

“You’re right,” Harry agreed, “She’s really not anything to me. She’s my enemy’s kid…” He stopped speaking long enough to swallow down the bile he could feel rising inside of him. “But she’s also more than that. She’s like me, you see. She had parents, and now she doesn’t. She’s got no one, certainly not you.” 

“You think to accuse me?” Narcissa asked, sounding affronted. 

“No.” Harry answered firmly. “No, that’s not it at all. I just… I feel like we’re the same. And like I’m… responsible. Her parents are dead because of me.” 

“Her parents are dead because they were wrong,” Narcissa hissed, fists clenched at her side, the cold, swirling air now carrying little leaves in circles around her. 

“I need to know that she’s okay. I need to know that wherever she is, she’s got more than a cupboard and spiders as company.” 

“Did you really think I wouldn’t spare the money to make sure she had enough?! She’s my blood!” 

“You’ve seen her then? Since the battle?” At Hermione’s quiet question, the cold cyclone which had been threatening to engulf them stilled completely, leaves dropping out of the air and settling on the three of them. 

“I—No. We didn’t think it wise. The less she has to do with us, the less likely it is she’ll be discovered for who she is.” 

“Voldemort’s daughter.” Harry said the words and watched the way Narcissa shuddered before nodding. 

“Do you know where she is?” Hermione’s question was quiet, unassuming, but Narcissa looked at her with a scowl all the same. 

“Of course I do,” she snapped. 

“Will you tell us?” 

This time the older woman scoffed, finally settling back into her seat as she shook her head. “I may not wish to associate myself with the child, but that does not mean I wish her dead.” 

“I would never!” Harry cried, and Narcissa waved a hand in his direction dismissively. 

“Of course  _ you _ wouldn’t,” she agreed, “But I must confess that I suspect Miss Granger to be inarguably capable of it.” 

It was Hermione’s turn to roll her eyes now as she settled back into her chair, looking bored now. “Mrs Malfoy, if you think my hatred for your sister could induce me to harm a child, I’m afraid you’ve been surrounding yourself with entirely the wrong sort of people. My  _ only _ interest in the girl is to make sure that she is cared for and not being raised in her parents’ footsteps.” 

“And if she is?” Narcissa asked, her piercing blue eyes meeting Hermione’s honey brown ones. 

“We’ll figure something out,” Harry interjected. “We’re not monsters. I only want to see with my own eyes… I want to make sure I didn’t… I’m not going to hurt her.” 

“And I’m to trust your word, Mr Potter?” 

“You are,” said Hermione in a tone that left no room for argument. 

“I see.” Narcissa leaned back in her chair, watching the pair in front of her speculatively for several moments before nodding once. “Very well. I will provide you with the information you seek.”

“Thank you,” Harry said at once, relief flooding him. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest, and he gave the blonde woman a smile as he began to relax. “You have no idea how much this means—” 

“Oh, I think I understand  _ exactly _ how much you value this information, Mr Potter, which is why I will require something in return.” 

“You snake,” Hermione accused. “You owe Harry! Without him you and your precious family would likely be dead!” 

“Without me,  _ he _ would be dead,” Narcissa hissed. “I risked my life when I lied to the Dark Lord!” 

“And you were rewarded with your freedom!” Hermione cried. 

Narcissa laughed coldly, smoothing her robes out over her knees with both hands before looking back up to meet Harry’s green eyed gaze. 

“I want Lucius back, Potter.” 

“Unacceptable,” Hermione interrupted. “Lucius Malfoy is a murderer.” 

“You’ve no proof!” Narcissa cried. 

“I suppose he was trying to cuddle us in the Department of Mysteries, was he?” 

“If my husband had wanted you dead, you would not be sitting here today, Miss Granger.” 

“Alright,” said Harry, but he was ignored as Hermione began speaking again. 

“I’m only sitting here due to his incompetence,” she spat. 

“You will not insult my husband under this roof, you arrogant little chit!” 

“I SAID ALRIGHT!” Harry bellowed above the women’s exchange, standing as he began to breathe heavily. “I’ll do what I can for him. I’ll talk to Kingsley tomorrow. I can’t guarantee an immediate release, but I’ll do everything in my power.” 

A hopeful, satisfied expression flitted across Narcissa’s face as she watched Harry, ignoring Hermione now as she nodded. 

“When my husband is returned to me, I will tell you what you want to know,” she said, eyes shining. 

“No.” Hermione stood up again, drawing her wand in one quick motion and pointing it at Narcissa. “No, I don’t think so. You will tell us now, or there is no deal.” 

The blonde woman’s hopeful expression faltered as she studied Hermione, until at last she nodded again. “Very well,” she agreed, clapping her hands twice. Immediately, the house elf who had met them at the door appeared beside her mistress. “A quill and parchment, Tottsy.” Two more soft pops and Narcissa was writing something down and passing it across the table to Harry, who took one glance at the address written there and folded it before sticking it in his pocket. 

“I’ll expect an owl from you tomorrow, Mr Potter, with regards to your conversation with the Minister. Tottsy will show you out.” 

“Not so fast,” Hermione said, her wand still drawn. “We aren’t done yet. Tell me, Mrs Malfoy, how familiar are you with Unbreakable Vows?” 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**173 Dupart Lane**

**9 August 1998**

The home was not what she had expected. When Narcissa Malfoy had written down the address on her own personal stationary and given it to Harry, Hermione had imagined it would lead them to a house on par with the Malfoys’ ancestral manor. How very wrong she had been. Here at the end of an unkempt lane, number one-hundred-seventy-three was little more than a cottage in disarray. The full moon overhead bathed the wildly overgrown front garden in silvery light. Where once there had been a sizable herb garden, there was now an overgrown bed of rambling weeds interspersed with the occasional mint and lavender. The rose bushes beside the front steps were badly in need of pruning, and Hermione imagined that if they were left much longer they would begin to take on the appearance of the forest which had separated the prince from Sleeping Beauty’s castle. 

A loud crack behind her made Hermione jump, and she whirled to see a cloaked figure standing in the dusty lane. 

“Harry,” she breathed as he lowered his hood. His hair was even more of a mess than usual, the black locks sticking out at odd angles as if he’d been running his fingers through them for a century. “There you are.” 

“Is this it?” he asked, staring at the peeling paint and the sagging steps leading up to the front door. Hermione nodded and turned to face the place with him. 

“It isn’t what I was expecting either.” 

“Merlin, you’d have thought the Malfoys would be too prideful to stick their blood somewhere like this.” 

“She’s not really a Malfoy though, is she?” Hermione reminded him. “She’s the half-blood daughter of a Black, born extramaritally. Not exactly someone Wizarding nobility would want to associate themselves with.” 

“Bloody snobs.” 

“Quite.” 

They stared at the house for a while longer, watching for any sign that its occupants might be awake and moving inside. Seeing none, Hermione turned back to face Harry. 

“I got your message, by the way,” she said, trying to sound casual. “You wouldn’t believe how difficult it was for me to sneak out. Molly was up late knitting.” 

Harry said nothing, only drew his wand and cast a wordless charm at the house in front of them. A thin jet of golden light shot from his wand and collided with an invisible shield surrounding the house, dispersing harmlessly in several bright ripples. 

“Looks standard,” he said, voice soft and thoughtful. “Think you could dismantle it, Hermione?” 

“Dismantle it? Harry are you actually considering breaking in? There’s probably people sleeping in there! You could be arrested!” Hermione crossed her arms and stepped directly in front of her friend, blocking his view of the cottage and forcing him to meet her gaze. “What is going on with you tonight? First you send me a Patronus telling me to meet you here at one in the morning, and now you’re going to just waltz into someone else’s home in the dead of night? Have you gone mad?” 

“You didn’t have to come,” Harry spoke through gritted teeth, his scowl dark and determined as he sidestepped her and began to approach the house. 

“Stop it!” Hermione hissed, grabbing his arm and yanking him toward herself with enough force to stop him and send him whirling back to face her. “You’re being irrational! Can you imagine what would happen if whoever lives there caught you?” 

“I  _ imagine _ I’d obliviate them,” Harry said, barely hesitating. “I’ve gotten fairly good at it, you see.” 

Hermione stared at him in consternation. He was clearly upset, and she didn’t think this had to do with just the child who lived there. They had planned to come next week, during the day. Hermione had been refreshing her skills with Glamour Charms in preparation, as they had decided on posing as ministry officials. The woman who had taken in the Malfoy niece was the spinster sister of a Death Eater, and the connection would be enough to make their visit believable. Something had happened to make Harry abandon the plan. 

“Please, tell me what’s going on, Harry. I want to help you, but I need to know what’s so urgent.” 

“Does there have to be something happening? Can’t I just have changed my mind?” 

“Not about this,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “I know how important this is to you. You wouldn’t risk mucking it up unless you’d learned something that might change things… You can tell me, you know?”

Harry groaned in frustration and ran a hand through his hair, tugging it in the process and moving to stand several feet from her, his head slightly bent. 

“Do you always have to be so bloody perceptive?” he asked after several seconds of uncomfortable silence. “Am I not allowed to keep things to myself anymore?” 

“Harry,” Hermione said, concerned now, “I don’t mean to pry. I only want to help you. You’re my best friend; whatever’s bothering you, I just want a chance to help fix it.” 

“You can’t fix everything, Hermione! I know you fancy yourself all-powerful, but you can’t fix every bloody thing that goes wrong! Sometimes life is shit, and shitty things happen, and we can’t stop them!” 

“You’re scaring me,” she confessed, taking a step closer to him, and then another and another until she could feel his cold hand beneath her own. She clutched it in her grasp, lightning her grip as he let out a huff of air and looked determinedly over her shoulder. “Is it Narcissa? Did she do something? I thought I’d worded the vow so that she wouldn’t be able to interfere. Did she—” 

Harry sighed heavily and shook his head. “It’s not her. The vow was fine. She won’t be telling anyone anything.” 

“Then what is it?” Hermione asked, aware that her voice was sounding high and desperate now but not really caring. Something had obviously shaken Harry, and when that happened it tended to shake her too—especially since their year on the run, which had served to draw them closer together than ever. 

Harry didn’t speak for a long time, only returned the tight pressure in Hermione’s hand and leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers wearily. When at last he did speak, his voice was so low she might have imagined it. 

“Greyback. He had a son. I dunno if I mentioned him or not, but Kingsley told me about him. He was bitten, a little baby transforming every full moon. It killed him a few hours ago.” And then he began to shake, his shoulders heaving as he squeezed his eyes shut tight and let go of Hermione’s hand, meaning to withdraw. She wouldn’t let him, wrapping her own arms around him instead and pulling him into her for an embrace. She remembered the way he had held her last year in the tent, after Ron had left them. She had sobbed for hours and he had wrapped himself around her, a solid presence into which she could sink, allowing the tears to overflow onto his jumper without saying a word. He had given her strength when she had none to spare, had reminded her that despite how it felt, she was not alone, would never be alone as long as he was near. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her own voice thick with emotion as she felt several warm tears pass from Harry’s cheek to her neck. He wrapped his own arms around her at last and let his body relax at the sensation. 

“It could have been Teddy,” he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder.

“No,” Hermione said in dismay. “You would never let that happen. Neither would Andromeda.” 

“Yeah, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Harry asked, pulling away at last. “Teddy has me, he has Dromeda… but who did Fenrir’s kid have? Who does Delphini have?” Hermione could see in his expression that he had come to some decision which had helped to alleviate at least some of the pain he had been feeling. 

“I had to check on her,” Harry said, clearing his throat. “When I heard what happened to the Greyback boy, I needed to know there wouldn’t be another death. I needed to know that she had someone too.” 

“It’s not your fault. You believe that, don’t you?” 

Harry nodded just slightly in response, and Hermione forced a smile. 

“I know,” he said, “I know it in my head. But here—” He touched a hand to his chest and shook his head. “It feels different. It’s like I’m responsible for them. For the orphans. For her. It’s like, I  _ was  _ her, and now It’s my job to help her. I had a piece of him in me my whole life, my whole fucking life. And she will too.” 

“Harry, she’s not a horcrux. You have to know that.” Hermione hoped to God he knew it. 

“I get that,” he said, nodding, “I do. But she’s his. She comes from him. That will always be there, and I can’t bear the thought of her finding out some day, and thinking it defines her. Thinking she’s responsible for what he did…” 

“What more can we do than we’re already doing?” Hermione asked. “We’re here, checking on her circumstances, making sure she’s provided for. You’re doing right by her, Harry.” He was, she knew he was. And yet still there was the nagging feeling in the corner of her psyche which told her she was missing something, something important. 

“You’re right,” Harry said, his tone appeasing. “And if she’s well cared for, if we can make Rowle take the vow—” 

“The vow!?” Visions of Narcissa and Harry, forearms locked together as Hermione bound them with stinging strings of unbreakable magic, flashed in her mind. “Harry, you can’t just force some to take an Unbreakable Vow whenever you please.” 

Harry raised a brow, and Hermione blushed. 

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it a few days ago,” he reminded her. 

“That was different,” she defended. 

“How?”

“It was to protect the child’s location, in case anyone else found out about her existence. And to protect  _ us _ .” 

“This would be to protect her too! If we could get the woman to vow to do the right thing by her—” 

“It’s more complicated than that, Harry! An Unbreakable Vow must be carefully crafted, or it may do more harm than good. Look at what happened to Professor Snape!” 

“You don’t think swearing her guardian to secrecy about Delphini’s origins would be worth the minimal risk?” 

“I didn’t say that,” Hermione snapped. “But I don’t think it’s wise to rush into this situation settled on such a drastic course of action when we don’t even know what the state of things is. For all we know, a vow would be unnecessary. Euphemia Rowle could be a perfectly agreeable woman who wants nothing but the best for her charge.” 

Harry said nothing but sighed and turned his back on Hermione, facing the house again and raising his wand once more. She watched as he worked, dismantling the protective charms surrounding the property the same way they had done on the run. It really was neglectful of the home’s owner to leave the house so sparsely protected. When he was done, Hermione withdrew her own wand, checking for any further enchantments. Finding none, she nodded at Harry, motioning him forward. 

“You’ll need to Disillusion at the very least. And silence your shoes.” 

“What? Aren’t you coming?” he asked. Hermione shook her head. 

“Someone needs to keep watch out here,” she told him. 

Somewhere nearby, a mournful cry began to swell, growing louder on the air as the unearthly noise mounted in pitch before finally dissipating, only to repeat twice more and then fade completely into the black night. 

“What the bloody hell was that?” Harry asked, looking spooked. 

“An augurey,” Hermione answered, “unless I’m mistaken, which I really don’t think I am. You’d better hurry. Their cry forecasts rain, and I don’t fancy standing out here getting soaked.” She gave him as confident a smile as she could muster and prodded him forward with the tip of her wand. 

He hesitated for a moment and then said, “Thanks, Hermione. You’re the best,” before disappearing up the front steps of the cottage and behind a solidly cast Disillusionment Charm. 

0-0-0-0-0

The first thing Harry had noticed about the house was that its windows were obscured from the inside, and so when he stepped through the unlocked door and into the pitch black entryway, he was not surprised that the light of the full moon outside did not filter in to brighten his way. Wordlessly, he lit the tip of his wand and let it spill light out into the front room like a torch. The room was as ill cared for as the exterior of the house. There was a threadbare sofa against the back wall—it’s floral pattern having long ago faded from bright and cheery to dull and dusty. Harry wrinkled his nose at the thought of having to sit on the thing. It looked as if it might be riddled with bugs, and the rest of the furniture in the room was no better, with the exception of a wooden rocking chair in the corner which, while it looked as if it had seen better days, at least appeared to be free of pests and serviceable enough. 

Harry finished taking stock of the room, noting that there were three exits, each giving entrance to a different part of the house. The first was a tall wooden door, slightly ajar and leading to what looked like a postage stamp sized toilet. Judging by the state of the living room, he doubted very much that he would find the bathroom a pleasant environment, and so he decided to skip it altogether. Instead, he turned to his right, where a cramped looking archway seemed to lead into a narrow corridor. He supposed this would be where the bedrooms were, and so with a renewed resolve, he crept towards it. 

The corridor itself was bare, with three doors leading off of it. He came to the first and opened it with utmost care, taking nearly a full minute to inch it open until at last he could see into a curiously tidy room covered in what looked like sewing accouterments. There were several headless mannequins here, and stacks and stacks of fabric along one of the walls. In the center of the room, a long table was covered in piles of robes, and a pair of scissors floated in the air nearby, as if waiting for a command before springing into action. If Harry had to guess, he would say that Euphemia Rowle was a seamstress and that this was her work space. He felt a small weight lift off of his chest at the realization. Perhaps, though this woman was a terrible housekeeper, she was a good provider, and a kind guardian. 

He left the room as quietly as he had entered it, closing the door carefully behind himself and moving down the hallway to the last door on the right. He opened it with just as much caution as he had done the first, and when the light of his wand swept across the room’s contents, he was glad he had. 

This room was dominated by a large bed at its center. The quilt atop it looked handmade and well cared for, though the fabric showed its age… just as the woman nestled beneath it did. Euphemia Rowle was not a young woman. If Harry had been pressed to make a guess as to her age it would not have been a flattering one. Her hair was greying and her face covered in lines and the occasional spot.

Beside her bed, a cage sat on the dresser, a handful of live doxies within, buzzing about angrily. The noise did not seem to disturb their sleeping mistress, however, and Harry found himself grateful that she was such a sound sleeper. Loitering at the door of an old woman in the dead of night was not somewhere he would appreciate being discovered. 

Feeling suddenly awkward, Harry backed out of the room, closing the door with care and turning to face the room opposite. This then, would be the girl’s room. He felt his heart begin to race and his pulse pound in his neck. How unexpectedly nerve-wracking to be here at last, after months of worry and self-loathing. Would seeing the child change anything? Would knowing she was safe help him to sleep better at night, and perhaps forgive himself for the part he had played in her circumstances? 

He swallowed, reaching forward with one hand to turn the brass door knob. He pushed the heavy door inward slowly, his gaze directed at the floor until at last his view was unimpeded. It took several seconds before he managed to collect the courage he needed to look up.  _ One, two, three, _ he counted in his head, and then Harry let himself take in the state of the room. 

It was pleasant enough; with a little lamp on a desk beside a large bookshelf lined by paperback books and old magazines, and a single bed pushed into the far corner beneath a shuttered window. He certainly would not have complained at such a room in his youth. He felt himself begin to relax before he even realized that aside from its furnishings, the room was empty. 

“What the bloody hell,” he whispered beneath his breath, checking the room again for any sign that a baby lived there. Delphini Riddle would be one today, surely she would have a crib, a changing table, stuffed animals to amuse her and watch over her as she slept. He looked again at the bed, wondering whether the old woman in the next room could have put the child there. Had she fallen in her sleep? He scrambled forward, dropping to his hands and knees and lifting the worn dust ruffle to peer under the bed. No sign of a baby there, only several boxes with their contents hastily scribbled on the surface. 

Perplexed, his heart racing now, Harry stood. This was the address Narcissa had given him, he was certain of it. Had she been lying to him? Had she sent him on a wild goose chase? “ _ Homenum Revelio, _ ” he said, wand outstretched as he prayed the sensation of the spell would not wake the house’s owner. After several seconds, two flickering lights appeared before him, hanging in the air before dispersing together. Euphemia Rowle was not the only person in the house aside from him, then. 

Harry crept from the room, listening for a moment at the old woman’s door to make certain she still slept before going back to the sitting room. From there, he forced himself to peek into the bathroom. It was empty, and he sighed in relief until he spotted the cupboard near the front door. His heart sank, and he felt an uncomfortable knot low in his stomach. She couldn’t be… Rowle wouldn’t have… No! This couldn’t be happening again, not to her, not because of him. What had he done? By killing Voldemort, had Harry condemned his child to the same fate he had endured? Was this his punishment, for daring to think he could take a life without consequences? Where had this cycle begun? Who had first inherited a baby, unloved by anyone but it’s dead parents, and decided that it was better off out of sight and out of mind? He didn’t know, and frankly, he didn’t care. All Harry cared about now was ending the horror, the neglect, the abuse. No one had been there for him, but he would damn well be there for her. 

He took one step forward and faltered, then another, and before he knew what was really happening he was across the room, ripping the door to the closet open violently and breathing hard as he stared into its depths. He half expected to see a little cot with a black haired baby lying there in oversized hand me downs, a lightning bolt scar on its forehead, but there was nothing more than several travelling cloaks and a broom. He let his eyes flutter shut as he said a silent prayer of thanks to whatever deity was listening. Still, the sense of unease he had felt upon entering the house had returned full force, and he could not keep his heart from pounding out a rhythmic tattoo against his chest or prevent the sinking feeling from settling in his belly. If the child was not in one of the bedrooms, or in the cupboard…

Harry turned to the last possible place he might find the child, the doorway which, presumably, led into the house’s kitchen. He approached it warily, his heart still pounding as he reached out one hand to turn the handle and draw the door open. Once he had, he found that this room was as dark as any of the others, and as he stepped into it, his wand light fell on a spindly old table shoved against the nearest wall and he wrinkled his nose. A foul scent, overwhelming in its putridity, washed over him, and he found himself taking an unconscious step back. 

_ Oh God. Oh Merlin. _

He directed the light of his wand around the room slowly, taking in the faded wallpaper and the counters crowded by food-caked and molding dishes. At last, on the wall opposite the table, he saw a window, slightly ajar as if to air the room of its terrible scent, and below it, a rickety old crib. 

“Fuck,” he said, crossing the room in three strides and stopping just short of the little bed. He forced himself to look down into it, to find the head of dark, matted curls. 

She was awake, her little face red as she screamed soundlessly into the night air. She was dressed in nothing save a loosely pinned cloth diaper, so wet it sagged between her chubby thighs and left a damp stain on the mattress beneath her, one of many. In the corner of the crib Harry could see several other used diapers filled with urine and excrement, some of which was smeared on the crib rails. He fought hard not to vomit as he turned his gaze back to the baby. She had to be freezing there, beneath the open window, her little arms bearing finger shaped bruises in several spots. 

And someone had silenced her so they couldn’t hear her crying out in desperation. Euphemia Rowle had fucking silenced her. Hands shaking, Harry raised his wand, closing the window with a bang and vanishing every scrap of filthy cloth in sight, including the one wrapped around the child’s waist. He leaned down then, and lifted her into his arms, the weight of her familiar. She was heavier than Teddy, but he held her close all the same as he cast a  _ Tergeo _ on the mattress beneath her. She clung to him, and he did not prevent her from laying her head on his shoulder as he wrapped her in his own black travelling cloak before setting her back down. His heart broke as her fingers tried desperately to find purchase and keep him near her as she opened her mouth to wail again. His arms felt curiously empty without her in them. He turned his back on her — she was still crying soundlessly — and made his way out of the room. 

He paused again in the sitting room, his fists clenched tight as he considered his next move. He thought about retrieving Hermione before dismissing the idea. She didn’t need to be a part of this, of what came next. She had done so much for him, had helped him find this place, had given him the comfort and the strength he needed… He was here now, alone, and that was good. What happened to Euphemia Rowle now would be no one’s fault but his own. 

He thought he could live with that. 

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Whittington Hospital, Islington 

9 August 1998

The little exam room they sat in was cold and sterile with little more than a hospital bed, a monitor, and a cart filled with electronic equipment Harry wasn’t really sure the purposes of. The Dursleys had never taken him to a hospital before. The one time he had come home from school with a nose he had been sure was broken—considering it had been bent at a funny angle—his aunt had chided him for bleeding on her floor and sent him to his cupboard with a roll of toilet paper to stop the bleeding. Thankfully, the nose had healed miraculously overnight, a boon, he realized now, that had been his accidental magic manifesting itself. Harry’s only real experience with medical care had been in the magical world, and so, as he sat beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, a warm bundle in his arms, he felt his stomach tie itself into knots. 

A knock at the door sounded and Harry startled, his back straightening as he watched the heavy door swing inward and a woman in a white coat come into the room, still looking down at a chart in her hands. 

“ _ Confundus, _ ” Harry said beneath his breath, his wand now trained expertly at the grey haired woman. He had done the same to the nurse at the admitting desk when no one had been looking, and it had worked wonders for allowing them to avoid registering or having to wait for a room. He only hoped it worked as well a second time. 

“Doctor,” he said after stowing his wand. His voice caught the woman’s attention as she struggled to focus her eyes, and after several seconds, her gaze landed on him. 

“Um, hello,” she said, her expression close to vacant. 

“Would you like to begin your examination now?” Harry prompted the woman carefully, aware that all he really needed to do in this situation was make suggestions to the confunded doctor. Her mind would do the rest, supplying information it thought it needed to connect dots and draw a conclusion that would be to his advantage. 

“Examination? Why yes. I suppose I ought to. Hold out your arm.” 

“Not me,” Harry said, reaching with one hand to uncover the sleeping child in his arms, exposing her face and bare shoulders from beneath his black cloak. “Her.” 

“Of course,” the doctor nodded, blinking several times as if to clear a fog from her vision and setting her clipboard down before reaching for the little girl. Harry flinched, his arm tightening instinctively around her as he turned his body just enough to block the woman’s access. 

Just then, the door swung open once more, revealing a bushy haired brunette in a jumper and denim trousers. Her arms were full with two heavy laden paper grocery bags that she lowered just slightly so that she could take stock of the room she had entered. 

“You’ll have to let her closer than that, you know,” Hermione said, stepping neatly around the doctor and setting her load onto the bed beside him. She held out her arms then, and Harry knew what she wanted. He swallowed and looked down at the black haired baby he held, arguing within himself as he considered his options. He knew Hermione, knew she would do nothing to harm the girl… but a very real part of him wanted nothing more than to keep the baby with him and protect her from everything in the world. He didn’t think he could bear to see her crying the way she had in that filthy crib ever again. 

He cleared his throat and met Hermione’s eyes, nodding once and lifting Delphini slightly in his arms. He gave Hermione enough room to scoop the girl up, which she did before passing her carefully to the doctor. “You were going to examine her for any injuries,” she said, and the doctor nodded amiably. 

Harry watched as the older woman conducted the exam, letting the baby sleep for as long as possible before waking her to check her eyes, hearing, and throat. He managed to watch the entire exam without cursing, which he personally thought was a great victory, especially given the fact that when the doctor had found scabs and open sores mixed ontop of a nasty bacterial diaper rash, he had seen red. 

By the time the exam was finished and the doctor obliviated and sent on her way, Harry was nearly beside himself. The list she had given them of injuries to the child was extensive, and clear proof that she had been completely neglected, probably from the moment she had come into Rowle’s care. Finger shaped bruises from rough handling, sores from sitting in her own shit for days at a time, dehydration and malnourishment from probably never being fed a fucking decent meal. They were lucky she wasn’t showing signs of having contracted any contagions. He supposed he should be grateful for such small miracles.

“Oh, I could just kill her,” Hermione hissed, warding the door behind the doctor and then turning to rummage through the bags she had set down upon her entry. 

“What?” Harry looked up, confused. “The doctor didn’t—” 

“Not the doctor,” Hermione spat. “Rowle, that loathsome excuse for a witch. I hope you eviscerated her, Harry. I really do. What kind of person leaves a baby all on its own and is still capable of sleeping at night? She’s got to be reported!” 

“No!” Harry said sharply. On his lap, Delphini began to cry, startled by his tone. “Dammit, I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his voice and lifting her to rest against his shoulder as he patted her back. “Hush now, it’s okay. I’m sorry I shouted.” Her black curls brushed against his jawline, badly tangled and catching in his thick stubble.

Hermione watched them speculatively for a moment as Delphini calmed, before lifting several things out of one of the grocery bags and walking towards them. 

“Look, I know you don’t want the Ministry involved, but Harry, the woman could have killed a child. She can’t be allowed to get away with it.” 

“Leave it alone, Hermione. I took care of Rowle.” 

Hermione pursed her lips but said nothing more, only offered him the objects she held in her hands. The first, Harry recognized as a disposable nappy, and the second as a packet of wet wipes. The third was a tube of some sort. He thought it looked rather like toothpaste but thought that couldn’t be right. 

“Hold these,” she told him, setting them onto his lap beside Delphini, who grabbed for the tube and began turning it over in her hands curiously. Hermione returned to her bags, withdrawing a book from her beaded one and flipping through it for almost a full minute before returning to Harry’s side. “Right. I bought this in Diagon Alley while I was out. It’s a book of healing spells for pediatric mediwizards. It looks complicated, but I think I can handle them. The first few are simple enough at least.” 

Hermione looked back down at the book as if to double check something, and then raised her wand. She lowered it in an intricate pattern and uttered a spell Harry had never heard before as she did so. Harry looked down, watching in wonder as the bruises on Delphini’s arms and legs faded into nothing within seconds. Hermione raised her wand again, this time jabbing it forward and whisking it from side to side quickly as she said something else in a language Harry was fairly certain was not Latin. The little girl whimpered only a little as she shifted forward in Harry’s arms, and he looked down to see that the vicious looking sores on her bottom had been cleared, along with the raw rash, and poorly healed scabs. 

“Blimey,” he said, looking up in wonder at Hermione, “is there anything you can’t do?” 

She gave him a small smile and nodded once. 

“Change diapers.” 

OoOoOoO

Number Twelve Grimmauld Place

9 August 1998

The fumes from the potion on the stove rose—sharp and acrid in the air—and swirled in tendrils of blue steam. Above the cauldron, Hermione stood with one hand on the stirring rod, moving her wrist in precise, clockwise motions. She kept the count under her breath, just loud enough that she could hear herself, but not loud enough that the man sitting behind her could make out the words. At last, she reached the fifty eighth turn and withdrew the rod, setting it aside carefully and leaning over the potion to catch its scent. It smelled just faintly of peppermint, which the potions text she had purchased had assured her was a sign that it had been brewed correctly. 

“I think it’s finished,” she said, extinguishing the flame beneath the pewter cauldron and turning to face Harry behind her. He sat with his feet on the table, leaning back in one of the tall chairs which surrounded it, his arms still full of the little girl he had rescued earlier that morning. The little girl he had _ abducted _ . 

Hermione sighed and took the nearest seat, settling into it heavily and leaning forward so that she could rest her elbows on the surface of the table. It had been an eventful morning. After she had healed Delphini’s visible injuries, they had spent a great deal of time clothing and feeding the girl. Hermione hadn’t been exactly sure what to give her, so she had gotten some of everything. In the end, the baby had been content with a full bottle of formula and a few bites of vegetable puree. By the time they had left the hospital to return to number twelve, the sun had been cresting the horizon and the sky had been painted in hues of blue, orange, and pale pink. They had walked as quickly as possible to Grimmauld Place, disillusioning themselves as they walked through the square in case anyone was there who might recognize them. The last thing either of them wanted was to be seen carrying a sleeping infant into the house. There was no way they would be able to explain themselves at this point, and neither of them could really sweep an apparent kidnapping under the rug. 

“What are you thinking?” Harry spoke softly from his spot near the fire. In the dim light, the flames cast an orange glow around him. 

“Honestly?” Hermione asked. 

“Yeah,” answered Harry, sounding wary but determined. 

She sighed again and leaned back to sit straight in her chair, her hands folded tightly in her lap. 

“A little nervous that I’ll be arrested, actually.” Her confession seemed to amuse Harry. The corner of his mouth twisted up into a quick smile before settling back into a grim line. In his arms, Delphini stirred just enough to turn her head from one side to the other, her cheek still settled over Harry’s heart in her sleep. 

“I don’t think that’s how the Ministry would handle this,” he said. 

“An expert of child abduction, are you?” 

“I mean, none of them batted an eye when Dumbledore had Hagrid pull me from my parent’s cottage and then hid me away in the Muggle world.” 

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione shook her head. “I think that was a little different. I’m sure the minister knew Dumbledore was taking you to your aunt’s home.” 

“Are you? Well then, I feel a lot better about my childhood now that I know Fudge knew where I was the whole time. It makes not eating for a week loads better.” He was glaring now, despite his hushed tone, and Hermione winced. 

“You know that’s not what I meant, Harry, but if you’re looking for me to tell you I’m not concerned about the fact that you’ve kidnapped a baby, then I’m going to have to continue disappointing you.” 

“What the hell was I supposed to do, Hermione? You didn’t see her. Was I supposed to just leave her there?” 

“How dare you,” Hermione whispered harshly, her hands clenched into fists now as her heart began to race. “I saw what was done to her.  _ I  _ healed her bruises and her sores.  _ I _ emptied what was left of my pathetic savings account to make sure she was fed and clothed and healthy.  _ I  _ just spent two hours slaving over a potion to fix the malnourishment and dehydration that awful woman left her with.  _ How dare you _ sit there, judging me as if I’m blind to the reality of her situation, as if I wouldn’t have done the same bloody thing in your place.” 

Harry, looking mollified, tried to speak, but Hermione cut him off before he could. 

“I am very sorry that my refusal to ignore the reality of the situation vexes you, but even if what you did was  _ right _ , Harry, it still comes with a very real set of challenges and consequences! Do you think no one will question you about the baby you suddenly acquired? That you’ll be able to stay hidden here for the next eighteen years without showing the world what we’ve done? Are you actually planning on keeping her?” She realized as she finished that her voice had grown louder, and she abruptly closed her mouth, pressing her lips together in a tight line and shaking her head before hiding her face in her hands. She felt as if she was going mad. Never before in her life had she imagined being complicit in something like this. 

“I am,” said Harry softly. Hermione looked up to see that he was studiously avoiding her gaze.

“You can’t just keep her.” She tried to keep her voice calm, reasonable, but Harry’s eyes flashed all the same, and he looked up at her with a hard expression that he had never used on her before. She felt something in her gut sink. 

“I can,” he said. “I will. If you’ve got a problem with that, you’re welcome to clear off.” 

“That isn’t what I meant.” Hermione felt suddenly exhausted and over-emotional, as if she might cry at any moment. She tried her best to stamp out the feeling before continuing. “I’m only saying you need a plan. People will find out what we’ve done unless we’re careful.” 

“Are you going to tell them?” His jaw was set stubbornly and his arm had tightened around Delphini, who was, thankfully, still asleep. 

“Of course I’m not,” Hermione snapped, “And, frankly, I’m offended that you keep questioning my loyalty like that. I think I’ve done quite enough to prove myself to you tonight, Harry Potter.” She stared pointedly across the table at him until he blinked, looking away in apparent shame before nodding once. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I just… I feel really protective. I don’t know why.” 

Hermione nodded and felt the tension she had been holding in her shoulders fade away. As she watched the way that Harry seemed to orient himself around the child on his lap, she thought she might have an idea. 

“She could have died, Hermione,” he said, his voice barely more than audible in the dim kitchen. “She could have died, and no one would have been the wiser. Not the Malfoys, not the Ministry. She has no one… and I can’t just hand her over and let the Ministry ruin her life. I know what Voldemort did, who Bellatrix was… but she’s not them, and she doesn’t deserve to have their stain on her. Can you imagine, growing up with everyone knowing you were  _ his _ ?” 

“No.” Hermione shook her head. “I can’t.

“Fucking hell,” Harry said, and Hermione’s heart broke quietly as she watched his eyes squeeze shut as a few tears escaped. His free hand came up to cover his face as his shoulders shook. Hermione was on her feet in an instant, crossing the room to hug Harry where he sat. It was an awkward sort of embrace, with the baby between them, and yet, Hermione found that she did not mind the soft press of the sleeping girl’s shoulder against her belly. She felt connected, in that moment, to the two orphans. The man and the child—both impacted unconscionably by Voldemort’s legacy. She pressed her forehead to Harry’s and tried her best to hold back her own tears as he spoke again, his breath hot on her face. 

“I’m going to keep her safe, Hermione. No matter what. She’ll grow up a Potter, and she won’t ever have to face him the way I did. He’ll be a name in a history book. I’ve got to keep her safe.” 

Did he know, she thought, how good he was? How perfect and kind and caring a man he had become despite everything he had endured? Did he realize that no other man she knew would even consider taking the responsibility he was demanding? “Okay,” Hermione breathed at last, feeling his nose brush against hers as he continued to return her embrace. “We’ll need a plan then. And I think I’ve got an idea of where to start.” 

OoOoOoO

The drawing room of number twelve doubled as a library, which suited Hermione just fine. She created her base of operations on the longer sofa, spreading her research materials out in front of her just as she had done in school. It was easier this way, with all the books she needed already open and waiting for her to glance in their direction. She knew Harry thought it was a chaotic way to do research, which was why he was currently sitting across the room with a stack of books beside him and a single volume open over his lap. His black hair was practically standing on end from the number of times he had run his hands through it in the last several hours, and his stubble had grown a shade darker. At his side, Delphini sat quietly on the sofa. She was holding a doll Hermione had transfigured from a dishtowel, and was obviously enraptured by it. Hermione wondered if she’d ever had one before. 

She pushed the thought away and forced her gaze back to the copy of  _ Keeping Your Magical Family Pure _ in front of her. She had been sure she would find the answer she was looking for here, but the more she looked the more her hope dwindled. The volume was thick, leatherbound, and practically falling to pieces, but the title had lead her to believe that it would contain at least a reference to the subject they were seeking information on. Instead, all she had learned was how to enchant a family tree like the one on the wall behind her, and that she should summarily disown any family member who fraternized with undesirables, severing all familial magical bonds in the process. She sighed, but continued reading. Minutes later, she nearly crowed in delight. 

“Oh-ho, there you are!” she exclaimed, picking the book up excitedly and rushing across the room toward Harry. “I found it!” She waved her wand and cleared the books from beside him, sinking down to sit in the spot they had occupied, thrusting the volume she held onto his lap. “Look here.” She pointed at the heading of a section on the page and watched, satisfied, as Harry looked down. 

“Magical Adoption Bonds: A Blemish on a Great House,” he read aloud, and then looked up at Hermione, smiling for what she thought must be the first time since they had found Delphini. “Does it say how it’s done?” 

Hermione grinned in return and nodded. “It’s simple, actually, but seems to require quite a bit of emotional investment to even be an option. The author goes on and on about how women should safeguard that they not grow too attached to children outside of their family. It’s absolute nonsense, of course.” 

“Wouldn’t want purebloods adopting someone with inferior magic,” Harry said bitterly, and Hermione shook her head. 

“No, actually,” she corrected. “The argument here is for blood purity, because a magical adoption actually changes the magical signature of the child to match the family they are joining. There is no magical way to tell the child was ever  _ not _ a member of the family. It’s why the author, Shafiq, thought it was so insidious; it allows Muggle-borns to join very old Wizarding families, and to access their magical legacy, whatever that means.” 

“So short of a blood-test…”

“No one would be able to cast any sort of spell to discover the child’s biological parentage. They would all come back with the names of the adoptive parents.” Hermione smiled again as Harry seemed to relax at the news. 

“Good,” he said, and then looked back down at the book. “So how—” 

“There are three parts to forming a magical familial bond,” Hermione said, closing her eyes and reciting from memory. “Preparation; which is the formation of an emotional attachment between the two magical beings, Provocation; meaning an act which explicitly welcomes the bond, and Sealing.” She opened her eyes. “That part will be a little harder, as it involves a ritual… in this case, it’s legal paperwork issued by the Ministry acknowledging your bond and status as parent and child.” 

Harry’s smile fell, and he leaned back against the sofa, tilting his face up to the ceiling as he let his eyes close. Hermione could see the stress etched across his forehead. 

“I think you might have already accomplished the first two tasks,” Hermione continued, trying her best to sound hopeful. “Its why you’re feeling so protective right now. When you decided to remove her from that house…Well, I think your magic responded to the concern you’ve been feeling for her. I think taking her provoked the bond.” 

“Is there any way to tell?” Harry asked without opening his eyes. 

Hermione looked back down at the book, shifting it from Harry’s lap to her own and flipping back through its pages. She had read something earlier… 

“Yes,” she told him, “I think so. Do you want me to—”

“Please,” Harry interrupted, looking her in the eye and nodding once. 

“Right. I don’t think this will hurt. Stay still.” She took a deep breath and lifted her wand, eyes still trained on the pages of the book as she reread the incantation aloud. “ _ Fac Tangibile Chirographum _ .”

A thin glowing string slipped out of the tip of her wand, and Hermione directed it first towards Harry, and then Delphini. The little girl watched in apparent wonder as the light wrapped itself around her wrist twice before pulsing and then receding, just as it did from Harry. 

“The book suggests this spell be used when disowning less desirable family members,” Hermione explained as the string began to reshape itself, the light growing brighter as it twisted into a familiar shape before extinguishing itself. 

“What the hell is that?” asked Harry, who was staring at the thin, translucent shape hanging in the air between him and Delphini. The baby reached for it, her hand passing through it before Harry could stop her. 

“It’s not dangerous,” Hermione assured him. 

“It looks like a wand,” Harry said. 

“It’s just a stick. Or at least the imprint of one. If the bond between you were sealed it would be corporeal, and breaking it in two would sever the bond. Of course, only the people to which the bond apply are capable of touching the thing.” 

“So, what’s it mean if it’s not tangible?” Harry asked, collecting Delphini into his arms as he stared at the revolving imprint in the air suspiciously. 

Hermione shrugged. “I’m not positive, but I’d wager it means your bond is waiting to be sealed through ritual, just as I thought. The book says the spell only works where a bond exists, so there’s at least something there.  _ Finite _ .” The spell disappeared in a wisp of smoke, and Hermione put her wand back up the sleeve of her jumper. 

“Great,” said Harry, “so now all that’s left is getting into the Ministry of Magic unseen and with a baby, imperiusing some clerk to sign off on the papers, and then obliviating them. Should be simple.” The sarcasm in his tone was not lost on Hermione, who was now staring thoughtfully at the family tree on the wall across from them. She traced the lines connecting names with her eyes, finding as she did so the myriad scorch marks which marred the tapestry. Family was a funny thing, she thought. Some were as close knit as the Weasleys, while others barely spoke to one another. She doubted Walburga Black had ever known anything about the lives of those she had burned off of the tree after she had disowned them, and if they had joined the Muggle world — as squibbs and witches who married Muggles had sometimes done. She doubted anyone in the Wizarding world would even know their fate. 

“Harry,” she said softly, eyes now trained on the scorch mark at the very bottom of the tree. “How long has it been since you’ve seen the Dursleys?” 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Privet Drive

11 August 1998

The air was still warm on Privet Drive despite the lateness of the hour and the encroaching darkness. Harry adjusted his glasses as he approached number four, feeling the lack of breeze as his shirt began to stick to his back uncomfortably. He knew that his racing pulse did little to alleviate the discomfort he was feeling, but even so, he could not keep himself from feeling anxious. He hadn’t seen the house in over a year, had, in fact, thought that he would never need to step foot inside of it again. Was it the disappointment that he had been wrong which bothered him now, or was he honestly that troubled by his past? 

His eyes took in the empty driveway, and he consoled himself with the fact that he wouldn’t have to confront any of the Dursley’s right away. It seemed they weren’t home. Harry sighed deeply and forced his gaze to the plain front door. How many times had he cleaned the tiny little window above the door knocker, or shined the handle? His aunt had taken a ridiculous amount of pride in having a presentable and perfectly sanitary front entrance. 

Harry glanced behind and around himself to check that he was unobserved before withdrawing his wand and unlocking the door. It swung open easily, the hinges silent as they moved. Harry took in the gloomy interior of the house before stepping quickly in and shutting the door behind him. The house was changed from what he remembered as a child, or even from what the Dursley’s had left behind before they had gone into hiding the previous year. Then, the family had taken only what they could fit in the boot of their car. Clothes, photograph albums, important documents, and other small mementos. They had left the rest behind: dishes in the kitchen, furniture in the sitting room, all of Dudley’s television sets, and even hanging pictures on the wall. Now, as Harry peered from the corridor into both the kitchen and the living room, he realized it was all gone. Harry did not know whether it had all been moved since the end of the war, or whether some of it had been destroyed by Death Eaters once he had fled the premises, but the scorch marks on the floral wallpaper gave him some idea. In fact, the only sign that the house was not completely unoccupied was the suitcase left open in the middle of the living room next to a deflated air bed. 

Harry stepped in to inspect the bed further, but before he had a chance, a bright light flooded the room for a moment and he ducked instinctively, backing into the hallway again, out of sight. It took him several more seconds to realize that the light had not been the flashing of a curse, but the headlights of a car turning in the street. He let out a sigh of relief and shook his head. Clearly, he had not been spending enough time in the muggle world if something as simple as a car could startle him. He looked up then, squinting in the deepening darkness. “ _ Lumos _ .” His wand light flooded into the corridor, and it was only then that he realized where exactly he was standing. 

The cupboard door had not changed at all since he had seen it last. Why would it? His heart began to pound, and before he could stop himself, he was reaching out with his free hand to grab hold of the door handle and twist. It opened with the creaking of a hinge, and he peered into the little space. He wasn’t sure what he had expected to see; perhaps the little camp bed he had slept in as a child or the cleaning supplies he had spent his formative years staring at in the early morning hours before he had been allowed out of his cupboard. He felt his fingers twitch on his wand, and he grit his teeth as he slammed the door shut. 

What kind of ruddy human shut a kid into a dark little cupboard and thought it was alright? How must his aunt and uncle have justified themselves? When he was younger, he had resented them for their cruelty, but now, having seen Delphini for the first time and been spurred to action… god he hated them. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath as he stepped backwards, pressing his back to the wall behind him and leaning his head against it. There was nothing he could do about the past now; he knew that. Hating Vernon and Petunia would not change what had happened, and in the long term, his unhappiness and resentment would do  _ him _ more harm than it would them… but letting go was so hard, and if he was being very honest with himself, he hadn’t the faintest idea where to begin. He supposed there would be plenty of time for that in the future. 

The subtle purr of an engine sounded outside, and Harry stepped back into the living room. Light washed through the front window again, this time growing brighter before suddenly being extinguished. The noise of the engine died moments later, and Harry heard a car door open and shut. He backed himself into a corner as footsteps approached the front door and the handle turned. There was a pause. Harry realized in that moment that he had not bothered to relock the front door after entering. Whoever was here now, they must have realized the house was no longer unoccupied. He extinguished his wand light, not ready to be so easily spotted. 

The door swung open quickly, the handle hitting the inside wall with a thunk as someone rushed into the entryway on the other side of the wall Harry stood against. 

“Who’s there?” called a deep, frightened sounding voice. Harry recognized it immediately and let out a relieved sigh. “If you come out now, I’ll let you go without calling the authorities! There’s nothing here to steal!” He listened, unmoving as the man in the hallway strode forward, his feet heavy on the floor and practically shaking the walls as he burst through into the living room. In the light of the streetlamp which filtered through the window, Harry could see a tall, blond man with broad, heaving shoulders, and close set eyes. 

“Hello, Dudley,” said Harry from his spot in the corner. He left his wand in his hand, still casually pointed at the floor. 

Dudley nearly jumped in the air as Harry’s voice echoed in the empty room, his eyes wild as he stumbled backwards, catching himself against the doorframe. 

“Bloody hell. Harry? Is it you?” His hand reached for something on the wall, and in a moment the overhead light was flickering to life, flooding the room with the familiar yellow glow of indoor lighting. 

“It’s me,” Harry said, unsure of what else to say. He could hardly do what he had done in the Order and answer personal questions, because aside from more inflammatory memories from their youth, the pair of them didn’t know each other well enough. 

“Blimey,” Dudley said, stuffing his hands into his trouser pockets. “I didn’t expect to see you.” 

“I didn’t expect to come.” Harry shrugged and tried to force a smile. 

“You got my letter then?” 

Harry had, in fact, received the letter his cousin had sent almost a month before. It had taken a circuitous route to him, through the muggle postal system and then into the hands of whichever Ministry wizard had been tasked with keeping a lookout for Wizarding mail there. Finally, it had been delivered to him over breakfast, in the beak of a tawny ministry owl. 

“I’m sorry about your dad,” Harry said, and although the passing of Vernon Dursley did not make him sad in the way the death of a family member ought to, he would always feel for someone losing their parent. He knew that pain all too well. 

“Thanks,” Dudley said, somewhat awkwardly. “I was sorry you didn’t make it to the funeral.” 

Harry cleared his throat. “I wasn’t sure your mum would want me there,” he confessed. 

Dudley shrugged, and Harry got the impression he was right. 

“Look, I’m sorry to just show up like this,” said Harry. “I only got your letter a few weeks ago, and I meant to reply. I’ve just had… Well, I’ve had a lot on my mind.” 

“I get it.” Dudley nodded and leaned back against the door frame with one shoulder. “I didn’t expect you’d make it to Canada, but I thought maybe while I was here we could… I dunno. Grab a drink?” 

“A drink.” Harry echoed the words almost incredulously and winced at the mortified look which flitted across his cousin’s face. 

“I understand if you don’t want to. I’ve been a little shit all our lives. I don’t think I’d want to have a drink with me either.”

“It’s not that,” Harry clarified quickly. “I mean, yeah, you were a gigantic prat, but it looks like you’ve turned out okay.”

“Oh.” The tops of Dudley’s cheeks pinkened. “You too, I reckon.” 

They stood in silence, neither meeting the other’s eye, until Dudley cleared his throat at last and stood up a little straighter. “It’s good luck you came today, actually. I fly back to Vancouver tomorrow, and I was wondering how I was gonna get your things to you.” 

“My things?” Harry was confused. He had taken all of his possessions with him when he had left Privet Drive the last time. His childhood had fit into a trunk. Had he missed something? Something magical? Dudley nodded twice and looked upwards at the ceiling. 

“There’s a trunk up there in the attic that looks a lot like the one you use to take to your school. Mum kept a padlock on it, but I picked it a couple of years ago. Bunch of books about magic and weird clothes like the ones I’ve seen your lot wear. She nearly tanned my hide when she found me.” 

“A school trunk?” Harry asked in disbelief. “Whose? Why on earth would it be in your attic?” He had never been allowed into the attic where the Dursley’s stored their old effects. He remembered thinking it odd as a child, given that he was made to clean every other inch of the house. 

Dudley shrugged. “I thought it was yours at first and that my parents had killed you and stashed the body somewhere, but the dates on everything were all off. The more I thought about it though, the more I thought it must have belonged to your mum. I know mine took a bunch of things from her parents’ house when they died, and stuck them in the attic. Maybe it was one of them.” 

His mum? Petunia had kept a trunk of his mother’s old school things for his entire life and never bothered to tell him? 

“Can I see it?” Harry asked, and Dudley nodded again. 

“I was planning on giving it to you if you stopped by or taking it with me if you didn’t, and trying to get you to come grab it. You remember the way?” 

Dudley let Harry lead them through the house, jumping slightly when he lit his wand but following nevertheless. As they walked up the stairs and to the first floor, Harry realized that the house was not completely empty after all. Boxes lined the hallway, and though the bedroom furniture was missing from the open rooms, he was able to glimpse the imprint of their weight on the carpet as he passed by. 

“I’ve just about finished going through everything,” Dudley offered. “Someone made a mess of the place while we were gone, but there was plenty I was able to save. I think my mum will be happy. She couldn’t bear to come back here after Dad had the heart attack, but she wanted her old things.” 

“Are you selling the house then?” Harry asked, keeping his voice neutral as he remembered why he’d come to see his cousin after all. 

“Yeah. There’s nothing here for us anymore. Mum’s made new friends there that she gossips with, and she can’t go a day without visiting dad at the cemetery, and I’ve got… well, I’ve got a girlfriend, actually.” Harry turned to face Dudley with an arching eyebrow and a smile. The other man blushed and reached up to rub the back of his neck. “She’s great. Her names Kate, and she’s so bloody smart it puts me to shame.” 

“Good for you, D.” Harry gave him a warm smile, and Dudley blushed a brighter shade of pink. 

Harry turned his back on his cousin, still smiling slightly as he spotted the door on the ceiling which he knew would lead into the attic. “Right,” he said. He didn’t particularly fancy climbing up there and dragging down a school sized trunk. Luckily for him, he didn’t have to. “Stand back, will you, Dudley?”

The blonde man took several steps back and looked warily on as Harry pulled down the fold out steps from the attic entrance. Distancing himself as well, Harry raised his wand. “ _ Accio trunk _ ,” he said, and heard a thump from above, followed by the sound of something heavy dragging over hardwood, and the appearance of a brown leather trunk which revealed itself at the open door. It lurched forward, sliding down the rickety stairs until it hit the floor at Harry’s feet with a thud. 

“Blimey,” Dudley said, eyes wide as he stared at the wand in Harry’s hand. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Harry apologized. 

“No, it’s okay,” Dudley said, obviously still wary, but apparently resolved not to give into his more suspicious inclinations. He had, after all, been raised by Vernon Dursley. 

Harry unlocked the trunk with a silent flick of his wand and turned back to face it, his heart beating more quickly. He bit his lip and watched the lid open of its own accord. 

The first thing he noticed was that the top of the trunk had been decorated. At first he assumed it was with charms, but upon closer inspection, he realized it had been painted. The beautiful landscape in varying shades of blue green and brown must have taken ages to complete. He’d had no idea his mother had been an artist, and he felt his eyes begin to prickle with tears as he swallowed and forced his gaze down to the contents of the trunk. 

“That one I put there, actually,” Dudley said from behind Harry.

“How?” Harry whispered the question. He wasn’t sure he could trust his voice at any other decibel. 

“I found it in a box of my old baby things. I recognized it.” 

The blanket was hand knitted in pale cream and stained yellow at the corners, but Harry didn’t care. It had been his as a baby, had been the one possession he’d come to the Dursley’s with and been allowed to keep with him. He hadn’t realized it had been out of a reluctance to share any of Dudley’s posh department store blankets with him, and he hadn’t cared. He’d carried it everywhere with him until the summer he’d turned five. Even now, he remembered the way he had felt when Vernon had ripped the thing out of his hands and told Petunia to ‘get rid of it’. He’d cried for a week and had been careful since then to never become so attached to anything. 

Harry cleared his throat. “I thought your mum had binned it.” 

Dudley just shrugged. 

“Thank you,” Harry forced the words out, finally reaching for the blanket, his hand trembling as it brushed against the soft yarn. He could scarcely believe that this piece of his life from before Voldemort, before his parents had been murdered, and before the Dursleys, was here now. It seemed almost too fortuitous to be coincidental, and yet… here it was. He finally allowed himself to pick it up, carefully folded as it was, and set it on his lap. He knew just what he would do with it. 

Looking back into the trunk, Harry took in the rest of the things stacked there. On the left were old editions of books he recognized. The Standard Book of Spells: Year One, sat on top, and Harry let his finger brush gently along its spine before opening the cover. There on the title page, in childish, feminine handwriting, the words, ‘Property of Lily Evans’ were written. To the right of the books, several pairs of Hogwarts uniforms were neatly folded, the Gryffindor crest emblazoned on top. Beside them, Harry recognized a set of broken scales, an old pewter cauldron, and what looked like a stack of letters. He lifted two of them to check the return addresses and found the names “Pearl Evans” on one, and “Petunia Evans” on the other. These then, were letters his mother had been sent from her family while at Hogwarts… and his grandmother’s name had been Pearl. How had he never known that? 

“What’s this?” Dudley interrupted Harry’s thoughts as he approached, leaning over the trunk and reaching in to grab a gold chain which was draped over the sleeve of one grey cardigan. Harry watched as he withdrew it, eyes widening as a delicate looking golden oval came into view. 

“Here,” said Dudley, settling the thing into Harry’s outstretched palm. Harry looked at the pendant for several seconds, reminding himself that  _ this _ locket was nothing like the one he had spent so much time wearing the year previous. He turned it over in his hand to see an etching in the shiny metal. 

_ Friends Forever _ it said. Confused, Harry opened the locket. It took him longer than he would have liked to admit to recognize the two girls on either side of the locket. The first, was clearly his mother. Her brilliant red hair was wild and pulled over one shoulder, and she grinned at the camera, perhaps all of six or seven years old. She was lovely, and Harry could see that through the years, her eyes had not changed much at all. Opposite her in the locket was the photo of a pale, blonde girl with a happy smile and blue eyes. Harry thought at first that it must have been some school friend of his mother’s, but the name scrawled on the bottom of the picture disabused him of the notion. 

“I think this is your mum,” Harry said, holding the necklace out for Dudley to see. The other boy took it, peering inside and then nodding. 

“Yeah, I think it is. Wow.” 

“You should give it to her,” Harry said before he could think better of it. “The locket. Maybe she’ll want it now that—” He cut himself off and pressed his lips shut tight, embarrassed at what he had been about to say. 

“Maybe,” said Dudley after a beat. “I know it was my dad who hated them so much. Your parents. Mum didn’t argue; I think she was jealous… but it was dad who really wanted nothing to do with them… I think I will take this for her, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” said Harry, who was lifting the blanket from his lap and setting it back into the trunk. He would have more time to inspect its contents later. With a few flicks of his wand, the trunk locked and shrank until it was small enough to fit into the palm of his hand. He stood, placing it carefully into his pocket as he turned to face Dudley again. 

“Look, I need your help.” Harry stared at his shoes, unable to meet Dudley’s gaze. He’d never asked his cousin for anything before. He had always known the answer would be no. He hadn’t really been planning on asking today; he had fully expected that he would need to do what he had planned without Dudley’s permission, but now, seeing the change which had apparently taken place since his cousin had reached maturity, he thought that, just maybe, he might be pleasantly surprised. 

“Anything,” Dudley answered. Harry looked up at the quick reply, searching the blond man’s face for any sign that he was being disingenuous. Finding none, Harry smiled gratefully. “My parents were terrible to you, Harry,” Dudley continued, looking troubled. “ _ I _ was terrible to you. Honestly, I’m still a giant shit three quarters of the time. I’m trying not to be, but so much of what they taught me encouraged the type of behavior that— well, frankly, that I’m embarrassed of now. My therapist thinks—” 

“Your therapist?” Harry asked, surprised. Dudley was never the type he had imagined would spill his guts to a paid professional. 

“Yeah,” Dudley answered, managing not to sound defensive despite Harry’s disbelief. “He’s great. He thinks that my talking to you, maybe having the opportunity to do something positive for you, might help me to be a little less of a dirtbag.” 

“You’re not a dirtbag,” Harry objected promptly. “You’ve obviously done a lot of growing up since we were kids, Dudley. We were kids. The way we were treated was neither of our faults.” 

“Sounds like you’ve been seeing someone too,” Dudley observed. Harry blinked and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not that I’d object, but… well. I don’t really feel ready for that.” 

Dudley nodded, seeming to understand, but said nothing. Harry stood there in silence for several uncomfortable seconds, wrestling with himself as he decided what to say next. Dudley had agreed to help him without knowing what it was he needed, but how much could he really trust his cousin and former tormentor? Could he trust him with what was most important? He glanced up at the other man again, taking in the concerned look on his face, the sincerity. He decided at once that the Dudley he had known was not duplicitous enough to fake this type of remorse. 

“I’m adopting a kid,” Harry said in a rush. “She’s an orphan, like me, and I need to protect her. Part of that is making sure no one ever finds out who she belonged to before she was mine. I want to tell people she was yours, but you’ve died, which means I need to hide you from wizards who might come looking. I need to know if you’re okay with that.”

“Bloody hell,” said Dudley, whose eyes had widened as Harry had spoken. He sagged against the hallway wall as his pale brows knitted together and he seemed to turn over the information Harry had given him in his mind. “An orphan. You’re going to be a dad?” 

Harry let out a breath, the weight of Dudley’s words hitting him like a hippogriff. Was he going to be a dad? He’d rescued Delphini from that awful place, had known even as he’d walked out of the house with her bundled in his cloak that he would not be parted from her. He and Hermione had been researching magical adoption, had been planning how best to present her inclusion into his family as a  _ fait accompli _ . She was going to be his, was already his. His daughter. Harry nodded. “She’s brilliant, Dudley. This perfect little girl who has been through so much, and yet she can still smile at me when I sing horribly off key lullabies. She needs me, and I want to be there for her… And I need you to help me do it. Dudley… Please.” 

“When you said you needed to hide me…” Dudley’s voice trailed off, and Harry noted the look of concern in his eyes. 

“An enchantment,” Harry clarified. “My friend is brilliant with spells, and she’s configured one that will repel wizards from you, a lot like how we can repel Muggles. It’s not that they can’t  _ see _ you, but they’ll feel compelled to look away, to leave quickly. They won’t want to think about. Otherwise, you’ll be able to live your life normally. You can go back to Canada, be with your mum, with your girlfriend. Nothing else should change.” 

“Okay,” said Dudley. 

“I know you’ll need time to think about it,” Harry continued. “I can come back tomorrow before you leave for your answer—” 

“No, I meant, ‘okay I’ll do it,’” Dudley interrupted. “My parents spent most of our lives fucking you over, Harry. Maybe this way a Dursley can actually do right by an orphan. Maybe in some small way, I can keep the promise they should have made.” 

Harry felt throat tighten and nodded once more. 

“You’ve become quite a grown up, Big D.” 

Dudley grinned. 

“You too, Harry.” 

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

The Ministry of Magic 

13 August 1998

The Minister for Magic’s office was warmer than she had dressed for, and as beads of sweat began to form on her brow, Hermione found herself wishing that she had worn a blouse beneath her jumper after all. As it was, the soft cashmere — which had seemed so elegant to her only hours before — now felt like camel hair against the delicate flesh of her belly and chest. She longed to pull it up for even a moment, but the glowering portrait of Rufus Scrimgeour which dominated the wall behind Shacklebolt’s desk put all such ideas decidedly to rest. 

Hermione sighed and shifted in her seat, dabbing at her face with the back of her wrist and cringing internally as it came away damp. Merlin, this was worse than waiting for Professor McGonagall to tell her whether she would be able to use the Time Turner in her third year or not. That meeting too had been in the middle of Summer, but fortunately for Hermione, the deputy headmistress had apparently been more effective at cooling charms than whoever it was that was responsible for the climate in the Minister’s private office. 

“Hermione, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.” Kingsley Shacklebolt’s deep voice boomed throughout the room as the door swung inward, startling Hermione as the bald headed man strode past her to sit in the large leather chair she was facing. “Christ, is it me or is it damnably hot in here? HECTOR!”

A short, pudgy man with a kind face peeked through the office door moments later, his head the only part of him visible from where Hermione sat.

“Yes, Minister?”

“Call Magical Maintenance for me, will you? The cooling charm has gone off again. “

“Right away, Minister,” said Hector, and then disappeared just as quickly as he’d come. 

“Now,” Kingsley sighed, settling back into his chair as he cast his own cooling charm over the two of them. Hermione felt a chill go up her spine as the sweat beading in her hairline grew cold. “To what do I owe the pleasure? You haven’t reconsidered my job offer, have you?” He was eyeing her curiously, and Hermione had to remind herself not to fidget. 

“Thank you, Minister, but I haven’t,” she answered. Kingsley looked disappointed for a moment but smiled warmly all the same. 

“Well, that’s not a surprise. If I’m being honest, I couldn't imagine you  _ not _ going back to Hogwarts. In fact, I’m certain I know at least one witch who would have my bollocks if you didn’t sit your N.E.W.T.s.” 

“I’m sure Professor McGonagall would stop short of gelding you, Minister,” Hermione assured him. 

“Minerva’s more ruthless than you can imagine,” Kingsley contradicted with a grin. His words were followed by a lengthy pause, and he leaned back in his chair, hands clasped over his flat stomach, before speaking again. “How can I help you, Hermione?” 

Hermione let out a soft puff of air as she thought about the answer to his question. 

“I’m not actually here for myself,” she said at last. Sitting up a little straighter in her own seat,she felt the curls which clung to her neck dragging slightly. “Harry sent me.” 

“Harry?” Kingsley looked confused, and she couldn’t really blame him. It was widely known that she and Harry were close, but that did little to explain why she would come on his behalf to speak with the Minister for Magic. “Is he hurt?” Kingsley’s tone was worried as his brows knit together, and Hermione shook her head. 

“Nothing like that. He’s just… busy. He wanted me to ask after Lucius Malfoy, actually.” 

“Lucius Malfoy?”

“Yes.” Hermione nodded. “He told me about your conversation, you see. He wanted to follow up.” 

“Hmm.” Kingsley’s eyes narrowed, but he seemed to consider her words. At last he seemed to come to some sort of decision, because he sighed and stood, turning to open a filing cabinet behind him before crossing the room to lean against the front of his desk, just to the left of Hermione’s knees. In his hands there was a bright blue folder with the Ministry seal emblazoned on its front. He held it out to her, and Hermione did not hesitate before taking it and laying it open on top of her lap. 

“What you see there is a file containing the testimony of every witness who testified in the trial of Lucius Malfoy. That’s yours on top, actually.” 

Hermione looked down at the neatly printed document, withdrawing it with one hand and feeling the crisp paper, cool against her fingertips. She let her eyes scan the first page, noting as she went words like ‘torture’ and ‘drawing room’. She dropped the paper back into the folder, forcing her gaze up to Kingsley’s. 

“I was there. I don’t think I need to reread them,” she said. 

“Of the testimonies against him, yours was the most compelling,” Kingsley continued. “As it turned out, Malfoy did very little we could pin him down for. In the end, his association with You-Know-Who was, by all accounts, largely involuntary. Still, it was his family money which supported the Death Eaters in the early days… and he stood by as his master and cohorts tortured children in the middle of his parlor. I have very little incentive to alter his sentence, Hermione, and if anyone but Harry Potter himself had been the one to ask me, I would have laughed them out of my office.”

“I’m quite aware of who Lucius Malfoy is,” Hermione said, her voice low as she kept her gaze locked on Kingsley’s. “But if you think Harry would have asked this of you without a damned good reason, you’ve gone round the twist.”

Kingsley sighed again and moved back around the desk to sit in his seat, settling into it with a concerned expression on his face. “Is he being blackmailed?” He asked baldly. Hermione shook her head, thinking of the promise Narcissa had extracted and the Vow Hermione had extracted in return. 

“Harry has his reasons for asking this of you,” Hermione assured him. “And little though I like the idea of Lucius Malfoy anywhere but in Azkaban, I support Harry’s decision. He’s not asking for you to set the man free, only to let him serve out his sentence at Malfoy Manor under house arrest.” 

Kingsley continued to eye her speculatively before holding out a hand for the folder he had given her. Hermione returned it without protest, watching as Kingsley banished it and then reached into his desk for a quill and a sheaf of parchment with an official looking seal at the top. He paused and looked up at Hermione—who nodded in return—and then back down at the parchment upon which he began to write in a bold, swirling script. The sound of his scratching quill filled the air for the next two minutes, until, at last, he signed his name with little flourish, and set his quill aside. With a snap of his fingers, the note sprang into the air, folding itself into a sleek looking paper airplane which hovered in the air until Kingsley said, “Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” and then swished through the air in front of Hermione’s face, and through the open office door and out of sight. 

“You can tell Harry that Malfoy will be back in his manor sometime next week,” he said, sounding gruff. 

“Thank you,” Hermione whispered, though she didn’t feel grateful at all. If Harry hadn’t promised Narcissa her husband’s return, Hermione would have gladly sat by, satisfied in the knowledge that Malfoy senior was rotting behind bars. Still, she had to admit that having seen Delphini, having held her and felt the baby’s warm weight in her arms, the bargain had been worth it. She knew that it was Harry who was bonding with the enchanting infant, but she could not help but feel that the girl’s safety was not just Harry’s responsibility now, but hers as well. 

“I hope you both know what you’re doing,” Kingsley said as Hermione stood. She met his eyes once more and forced a smile. 

“So do I, Minister. So do I.” 

oOoOoOoOo

“Harry Potter, you are a bloody fool. What the hell made you think you were capable of this?” 

His reflection in the mirror accused him as Harry finished washing his hands, turning as he patted them dry on his trousers to face the pram behind him where a screeching demon had taken residence in the body of his cherubic ward. 

“Delphi, sweetheart, what’s the matter? Tell me.” 

The baby only continued her wailing, her mouth open wide as she shrieked and great big tears rolled from the corners of her eyes, down her cheeks, and onto the sensible onesie Hermione had picked out for them that morning. Distressed, Harry leaned down, unbuckling the straps which kept her from throwing herself out of the pram with fumbling fingers. It was a bloody wonder how he’d ever been a seeker, he thought, as clumsy as he was becoming. When, several seconds later, he had finished with the straps, he hooked his hands beneath the baby’s arms and lifted her up out of her seat and into his arms. As he settled her on at his shoulder, she took a long, shuddering breath and grew quiet, laying her cheek against him and clenching her chubby fists in his shirt. 

“There we are,” Harry soothed, rubbing circles on Delphi’s back as she continued to sniffle against him. He glared at the pram, still sitting in the middle of the tiny bathroom, taking up three quarters of the space and providing nothing in return. With a disgusted sigh, he grabbed the diaper bag from beneath it, turned his back on the contraption, and unlocked the door. 

The restaurant was not busy at this time of day, and Harry was grateful for that. Delphi did not seem to like large crowds, and he couldn’t blame her; he wasn’t a fan either. He quickly located the booth they had been sitting at before, sinking into it and offering Delphi the little stuffed owl he had left there to save their place. Cautiously, the baby stretched out one hand, waiting for several seconds as if to gauge the likelihood of the toy being withdrawn, before finally grasping it and pulling it into her chest, to nestle between her and Harry. 

“You see?” Harry asked, using his now free hand to lift a glass of water which had been refilled in their absence. “Life’s not so bad.” Delphi hummed in response and sniffled once more. 

“Where’s the pram gone?” Harry looked up at the sound of Hermione’s familiar voice. She was standing beside their table, her hands on her hips and her head cocked to one side, damp tendrils of hair stuck to her neck where they had escaped the high bun she’d managed to wrangle her locks into. 

“We had a disagreement,” answered Harry, who had to force his gaze away from the elegant curve of her neck. 

“What kind of disagreement? Harry, what did you do?” Her voice was growing shrill, and Harry found himself smiling amusedly at the tone. 

“It’s in the loo,” Harry said. “But, honestly, it’s useless as two shits, so I don’t think I’ll bother retrieving it. Delphi just screams whenever we get within a yard of the thing.” 

“Watch your language,” Hermione chided, reaching a hand out to touch Delphi’s nose playfully. “Papa shouldn’t teach you naughty words, should he, Delphini?” The baby smiled in response, and Harry felt his heart clench.

“I’ll be right back.” Hermione turned quickly, making a beeline towards the bathroom, and Harry felt a strange sort of sadness that he couldn’t place as she left. She had been dead helpful in the days since he had found Delphi, and he didn’t think he would ever be able to repay her. She’d gotten him all the supplies he had needed and had lied to the Weasleys for him while he had struggled with what to do next. She had been the one to orchestrate the plan they were following now, the plan which would ensure he could keep provide for the child in his arms for the rest of their lives. She’d given him the most precious of gifts, and perhaps he was being a sentimental fool, but he loved her even more for it. Hermione Granger was the best friend he had in the world, and God help him, but he needed her in his life. 

She was gone for less than a minute, and, when she returned, she was carrying something in her hands. 

“Try this,” she said, holding out a long strip of navy blue fabric and waving it in front of his face. Harry reached out a hand and, unsure of what she was asking him to do, stroked the corner of the thing. 

“Soft,” he said, not knowing what sort of response she was looking for. Hermione rolled her eyes and motioned for him to stand. 

“Up,” she ordered, taking a step back to give him room. Once he was on his feet—Delphi still in his arms—she came towards him with the cloth, draping it over Delphi’s back and repositioning her to the center of his chest as she began to wrap the two ends of the fabric around him.

“Hermione, what are you—”

“Hush,” she said, crossing the ends over his back as she leaned forward, her hair brushing over his shoulder and her cheek bumping up against his. He smelled the faint honeysuckle scent of the shampoo he knew she favored and averted his gaze, falling silent as she had ordered. 

“There.” A full minute later she smiled, standing back and surveying her work with a satisfied expression. “That should be easier for you.” 

“Er…” Harry looked down, wondering what on earth she had done. The fabric, which he realized now was the same color the pram had been, was wrapped securely around both him and Delphi, extending behind his back and crossing to drape over his shoulders before it crossed again beneath the baby’s bottom and wrapped around to tie at his back. He moved one hand off of Delphi’s back experimentally, and seeing that she did not budge, he removed the other, holding them both up in the air. 

“Is this a baby carrier?” he asked once he realized Delphi was both secure and still happily nestled against his chest. 

“It’s a wrap,” Hermione answered, apparently pleased with herself. “I saw my cousin Estelle use one with her baby when my parents and I visited them in France years ago.” Her expression darkened as if she had said something wrong, and he knew that the casual mention of her parents had taken her by surprise, that she was very likely remembering that they were still living without any memory of her in Australia as she waited for the remaining Death Eaters to be caught and the danger to them to dissipate. 

“It’s brilliant.” Harry reached out a hand to take hers in its grip. Her fingers were warm against his palm and he gave her a smile over Delphi’s black curls. 

“Thank you,” she said, some of the worry disappearing from her eyes as she smiled warmly back at him. “Kingsley did as you asked, by the way. And I think that if you’re ready, now would be a good time to file the paperwork. When I walked in, it didn’t look very crowded, and I made sure to take a wrong turn past records.” 

“The press?”

“There’s a few in the atrium, but Skeeter’s absent, thank God. I really can’t stand that daft bint.” 

“Language,” teased Harry, and Hermione made a face but leaned down to engage Delphi with a smile once more. 

“Papa’s only jealous it wasn’t him that got to insult that old beetle,” she crooned. 

Delphi giggled and squirmed, an arm breaking free of the carrier and grasping one of Hermione’s curls before Harry could stop her. 

“Sorry! Delphi, let go of Hermione’s hair.” 

“You’ll have plenty of your own to pull soon enough,” Hermione said, unfazed as she disentangled the little hand from her locks and then took a small step back. “Shall we, Harry?” 

He nodded as Hermione grabbed the diaper bag from the table, slinging it over one shoulder and moving towards the door. 

“Hang on, I’ve got to get that useless pram from the—” He stopped at the exasperated expression on Hermione’s face. He looked down, realizing at once why the wrap was the same color as the pram, and then back up at Hermione with a sheepish grin. “Right,” she said, “after you then.” 

Hermione only grinned a smug grin as she turned her back and left the restaurant. Harry watched her go with a bemused expression, trying his damnedest not to notice the way her hips swayed as she walked. 

oOoOoOoOo

The Ministry of Magic 

13 August 1998

The Department of Magical Records was located on the first level of the Ministry of Magic on the opposite side of the building from the Minister’s offices. Fortunately, Hermione had been as good as her word, and the Atrium had not been particularly busy when they had entered. The three of them had been able to pass through unnoticed from the visitor’s entrance and into the elevator, barely having to do more than avoid gazes to be dismissed as uninteresting. Harry couldn’t help but compare this entrance to the one they had made the year before, and the thought had made the corners of his mouth turn upward. 

Once the elevator doors opened to admit them to the first floor, Harry and Hermione stepped through, continuing their steady pace through a wide corridor and into a narrower one which ended in a dingy looking vestibule lined with spindly wooden chairs. 

“Cheery,” noted Harry, and Hermione nodded, her gaze landing on the little window on the opposite wall through which they could see a bored looking young man flipping through a magazine. 

“Excuse me,” said Hermione as she approached the window. Getting no response, she frowned and turned to Harry. 

“Hello?” The young man didn’t respond, and Harry thought it was quite possible he couldn’t hear them. The idea was confirmed when he spotted a bell on the right hand side of the little ledge which ran beneath the window. He reached out with one finger and tapped it, expecting the familiar tinkling sound to fill the air. Instead, there was silence, but the man on the other side of the window jumped, clearly startled, and looked up at them through the window with an annoyed expression. With what looked like a sigh, he drew his wand, tapping the glass which promptly vanished. 

“Can I help you?” he asked, sounding for all the world as if he would rather still be pursuing the copy of Quidditch Weekly he had been holding. 

“Yes, actually,” Hermione said before Harry had a chance. “We’re here to file a record of adoption.” 

Still looking uninterested, the young man shouted over his shoulder, “Oi! Higgins! Someone here to see you!” and then raised his wand once more to reconjure the window between himself and the waiting room. Hermione made a disgusted noise and turned her back on on it, sitting in the nearest chair and motioning for Harry to join her. 

“She’s passed out I see.” 

Harry looked down at Hermione’s pronouncement, craning his head to the side so that he could see Delphi’s face. She was right; the baby must have fallen asleep somewhere between Charing Cross and the Ministry, lulled by Harry’s gait and the steady, reassuring sound of his heartbeat against her ear. The carrier Hermione had transfigured was genius, he decided. 

“My word. You’re Hermione Granger.” A raspy, feminine voice startled the both of them, and Harry turned quickly to see who had spoken. An ancient looking witch with hunched shoulders and frizzy gray hair beneath a pointed cap stood in an open doorway to the right of the window. “And Harry Potter! Bless!” 

Hermione sprang up from her seat with her wand in her hand. She studied the old woman for several moments before tucking her wand up her sleeve once more, forcing a smile. 

“I’m here to file a record of adoption,” Harry said, noticing that the power he had meant to express in his voice hadn’t quite translated. “Are you the one in charge of that?” 

“Oh, I file all family records,” the gray haired which said, motioning them through the doorway and then leading them on through a poorly lit hallway. Harry listened to his footsteps, muffled on the closely cropped carpet as they finally reached an office door. The woman led them through, sitting behind her desk and conjuring two plush armchairs for Harry and Hermione to sit in. Hermione took her seat, but Harry remained standing, afraid that such a change might wake up the sleeping baby against his chest. 

“A record of adoption, was it?” 

Harry noticed the nameplate on the desk in front of him and nodded. 

“Yes, thank you, Mrs Higgins.” 

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, dearie,” said the witch. She began to rifle through one of the desk drawers on her right before pulling out two small vials, a quill with ink, and a thick piece of parchment with writing already printed upon it. 

“Here we are,” she said as Hermione leaned eagerly forward to try and read the contents of the parchment upside down. “Now, I’ll need proof of the bond, and your signatures here, and here.” 

“Proof of the bond?” Harry queried. 

“Blood,” clarified Hermione, taking the two vials off of the desk and turning to face Harry. “If the bond exists, Delphi will have adopted aspects of your magical signature into her own. It will be evident in her blood.”

“Exactly so, Miss Granger. Tell me, will your name be included on the record?” 

Hermione blushed and shook her head. “No,” she said. “We aren’t— well, Harry and I aren’t a couple.” 

“Plenty of parents stop being couples,” the elderly witch dismissed, “but I take your meaning. Now, Mr Potter, is the child’s name down at Hogwarts?” 

Hogwarts. Bloody hell. Was her name listed there among other prospective students in Great Britain? Was evidence of her true parentage available to anyone who bothered to look? If she had been born in Wiltshire it would be. 

“I’m not sure,” he forced himself to say, casting a meaningful look in Hermione’s direction once the other witch looked down at her paper. 

“Is she a witch?” Mrs Higgins asked, looking back up. “I’m afraid if she’s Muggle we’ll need a whole other form.” 

“Her father was a Muggle,” Harry lied. “My cousin. But I think… well, I think Delphi’s a witch.” 

“Well, the blood should clear things up on that score,” Mrs Higgins said, finishing whatever it was she had been doing on the parchment before sliding it across the desk to him. “Your names printed here, and your signature here.” 

Harry studied the writing there. There wasn’t a lot, and it occurred to him that the nature of the magical bond between them kept witches and wizards of ill intent from adopting random children for nefarious purposes, thus precluding the need for much investigation of either party where the bond existed. The filing of this form was a declaration of an adoption, not an application. 

He printed his name beside hers, staring at the way  _ Delphini Hermione Potter _ looked on the parchment—his eyes catching on the last two names together before skating hastily away. 

“Just a few drops of blood each, if you please,” Mrs Higgins said, conjuring a pin and handing it carefully to Hermione. She took Harry’s hand first, unstopping one of the vials and holding it up to his finger as she pricked it and worked several drops of thick red blood into the glass. Luckily, when it was Delphi’s turn Hermione cast a numbing spell on the hand from which she drew the drops of blood, leaving the baby to sleep through the process and Harry to wince as the blood welled crimson on her finger. 

“Wonderful.” Mrs Higgins collected the vials, placing them on opposite sides of the desk before waving her wand over them and watching intently as they began to glow the same brilliant gold color. The glass began to vibrate shortly after, and then before Harry could blink, they were zooming towards one another and colliding in the middle of the desk with the tinkling sound of shattering glass. 

“Well, that answer’s certainly clear enough,” the old woman laughed. “There’s a strong bond here, and your daughter is absolutely a witch. Her name will have changed on the Hogwarts rolls when you sealed the bond,” she motioned to the parchment with Harry’s signature and smiled, “so there’s no need to do anything other than take your baby home and love her to bits. Congratulations, Mr Potter.” 

Harry’s eyes widened, and he looked at Hermione, seeking out her gaze as he began to smile broadly. 

“Congratulations, Harry,” she said, her own smile beatific as her eyes sparkled. “You’re a dad!” 

“Bloody hell,” Harry laughed. Against his chest, Delphi began to stir. His  _ daughter _ began to stir. 

“Bloody hell,” he said again softly, and his heart seemed to burst with joy inside of his chest. 

  
  



	10. Chapter 10

The Burrow

16 August 1998

The Burrow stood tall against the evening sky, the sun hanging low on the horizon behind it and beginning to paint the sky with oranges and pinks. The Burrow itself looked more silhouette than home from this distance, and Harry was reminded of Hogwarts on the eve of battle, of the way the castle had loomed, dark and forlorn in the distance as he had trekked into the Forbidden Forest to meet his fate. Now—facing the the prospect of the entire Weasley clan descending upon him—he thought he might rather be back in the forest. 

With a deep breath, Harry pushed his glasses up his nose and glanced down at Delphi, snug against his chest in the carrier Hermione had conjured for him the week before. “Ready to meet the rest of the family?” he asked. Delphi only smiled and reached up for his glasses, leaving fingerprints behind on the lenses before he managed to wrestle them out of her grasp and shove them back on his face. “Do me a favor and do that to Percy when you meet him.” 

The walk down the hill and to the Burrow’s door took far less time than he had hoped, but by the time he was considering turning around again, he had been spotted through a window and had heard someone shout, “They’re here!” He stood at the door for several seconds trying to work up the courage to knock, and just as he raised his fist, the door swung open. 

Ginny stood framed by the chaos of her mother’s sitting room. Most of her brothers stood behind her, trying to look far more interested in their shoes than they had any right to be, and in the corner, Hermione sat in an armchair, a book open on her lap as she stared anxiously at Harry in the doorway. 

“It’s true,” Ginny said, her voice low as she stared wide eyed at Delphi. 

Harry tried to speak but found his throat curiously tight. He cleared it and tried again. “Gin, this is Delphi.” 

“I know who she is,” Ginny snapped, her eyes flashing as she glanced imperiously up at him and then back down at the baby. “We read all about her in the  _ Prophet _ .” Harry tensed, wary as Ginny watched them, only relaxing slightly when her gaze softened and she looked away. “Come in,” she said at last, her voice small, her shoulders drooping as she stepped aside and motioned Harry into the house. 

“Bloody hell, Harry.” Ron spoke from his right, and Harry turned to face his friend. “You could have warned a bloke you were adopting a kid.” 

“It was sudden,” Harry said. He sounded awkward to even his own ears. “The Dursley’s—” 

“I know,” said Ron. “The Prophet printed the whole story, and bleeding Skeeter’s been hounding the lot of us for an interview about the accident. Won’t believe that none of us has any idea what happened.” 

“I didn’t mean to put you all in a bad spot,” Harry apologized. Bloody Skeeter. He should have expected she’d stick her nose in any crevice she could find for a story.

“It’s no trouble,” Hermione said, rising from her spot and coming to stand beside Ron. She touched his arm, and he glanced down at her, favoring her with a smile as some of the tension melted from his shoulders. 

“No, of course not,” Ron agreed. “It’s only we were worried about you. We know you weren’t close with them, but the Dursley’s were family, weren’t they?” 

“ _ Family!? _ ” 

Harry looked up at the sound of the voice he had been dreading the most, wincing slightly as he found the Weasley matriarch standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her hands settling on her hips as she surveyed the room. “They may have been blood,” she said, “but  _ we _ are his family.” With that, she strode across the room, yanking Harry into a fierce hug and only releasing him when Delphi began to protest. “Of course, I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead,” she continued, her eyes growing moist as they landed on the curly headed child whose hands were clinging tightly to the front of Harry’s shirt. “Now, who have we here?” 

“This is Delphi,” Harry said, untying the carrier with a flick of his wand and sending it to sit neatly folded on a nearby chair. “Delphi,” he continued once she was shifted into his arms, “this is Mrs Weasley.” 

“Nonsense,” Molly said promptly, “She’ll call me Nan. May I hold her?” 

Harry hesitated, knowing that his new daughter was wary of strangers, but before he could think how to phrase his response, the girl was reaching her arms out to the woman in front of her with a happy smile. Surprised but pleased, Harry shifted the baby’s weight into Molly’s arms and watched as she began to pluck at the beading around the collar of her robes. 

“Well, she’s a damn sight prettier than we were expecting,” said George from his seat near the fireplace. “She must take after her mum, because we all know that cousin of yours was no looker.” 

“ _ George _ !” 

“Sorry, Mum. I’m right though, aren’t I?” 

Ron nodded with a grin, and Hermione rolled her eyes as he wound an arm around her waist, a gesture Harry caught and tried to put out of his mind. 

“She seems lovely,” said Ginny softly, still standing beside the door. Her eyes were glistening now. Harry could see that she was upset and felt a twinge of guilt. He had done what he had needed to do that night on Dupart Lane, but his actions had consequences, not just for him or for Delphi, but for the people already in his life. 

“Ginny—”

“We’ll talk later, I think,” she said before he could get out another word, and then she was rushing from the room and up the stairs towards the upper levels of the house. Harry moved to go after her, but a firm hand on his arm stayed him. 

“She needs time, Harry,” said Arthur, who was looking after his daughter with a concerned expression. At last, he looked back at Harry, his smile kindly. “You haven’t done anything wrong, son. Even so, these things take adjusting.” Harry nodded; his chest was tight again as he turned back around. Hermione caught his gaze, her face sympathetic, and Harry felt some of the tightness release. Arthur was right. Ginny had every right to be confused or upset… but that didn’t mean he had done the wrong thing. Delphi was his daughter, and the people in his life would need to come to terms with that. 

Dinner was a subdued affair, with only the Weasley’s and Andromeda in attendance with Teddy. Harry spent a great deal of his time holding the little baby and marveling at how much larger Delphi seemed in comparison to his godson. For her part, Delphi spent her time going from Weasley to Weasley, happily babbling to each before finally settling into Hermione’s arms and refusing to be moved. Harry watched, amused as Hermione struggled to eat her steak and ale pie one handed. 

“So, have you got everything you need, Harry?” Molly spoke from the opposite end of the room, her wand aimed at a trifle which was floating to the center of the table. “For Delphi, I mean. It’s been ages since I needed baby things, but I’ve got plenty of toys and outfits set aside in the shed. I couldn’t bear to part with them when Ginny outgrew the lot.” 

“I think I’ve got most of it,” Harry said, touched that Molly would offer. “Hermione helped me with the shopping. Turns out she’s a bit of a whiz at baby things.” 

Ron seemed to stiffen where he sat beside Hermione, glancing over at her but saying nothing. Harry didn’t think she had even noticed, but he changed the subject all the same. The last thing he wanted was to say something stupid that would cause them to fight. “Thank you for offering, though,” he finished, directing his gaze and a smile back at Molly, who nodded graciously. 

“Well, you just keep it in mind if you find you’re missing anything, Harry,” she said. “I’ve got a shed full of things just waiting.”

“Mind if we take a look through it?” Bill asked, his voice casual as Fleur’s laugh tinkled from beside him. 

“Why would you need to—” began Arthur, looking up from the plate he was liberally loading with trifle, his eyes wide as his jaw finally dropped. “Merlin, are you two going to have a baby?” 

Fleur’s laughter chimed again as the table erupted into chaos and Molly lost her bloody mind, springing from her spot and rushing around the table to drag Bill and Fleur both out of their chairs and into her voluminous embrace. Harry watched the whole exchange, amused, and congratulated the couple in his turn. He noted the pride in Molly’s face as she sat once more, fanning herself and exclaiming about her wonderful fortune to get two grandchildren in a single day. 

As the family settled down again, and Harry placed a squirming Teddy back into Andromeda’s arms, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and saw a curly head of brown hair disappearing round the corner. 

“Excuse me,” he said to Andromeda, rising from his seat and following Hermione out of the room and into the stairwell. He entered the stairwell just in time to see her disappearing onto the first landing, and followed at a quick pace. Once he had cleared the last step, he paused in the hallway, listening intently for a moment to gauge which of the two doors she had disappeared behind. The first, he knew, belonged to Ginny. She had not descended for supper, and so he knew she was likely still behind that door, alone in her room. He thought about going in to her, about telling her that he still cared for her, and that he was sorry he had been so distant lately. For Merlin’s sake, he had missed her birthday the week before to meet with Dudley, sending only his profuse apologies and the ‘news’ about the car accident his family had been in with the postal owl. He’d been a terrible boyfriend lately, had made this huge, life changing decision without even discussing it with her first. No, Ginny had a right to her solitude and to her feelings. He wouldn’t disturb her now, not when his priorities had changed so drastically in the past week. Caring for Delphi—being a father—overshadowed everything now, and he had a feeling that Ginny would not share his enthusiasm for these new plans. Understandable, considering she'd had to find out about them from an owl. 

“Ron, I’m not going to have this discussion with you!” 

Hermione’s voice came icy and clipped from the room to his right, Bill and Charlie’s if Harry wasn’t mistaken. 

“I’m only asking you how much time you’ve spent with him lately. It’s like I haven’t seen you alone in weeks!” 

“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.” 

Harry moved to open the door. If they were going to row, he thought he ought to check and see that Delphi was taken away. 

“Who says I’m insinuating anything? But now that you mention it, that kid does seem awfully familiar with you.” 

“Ron, you’re embarrassing yourself. Honestly.” 

“I’m only saying there’s something you’re not telling me,” hissed Ron as Harry hesitated with his hand on the door. Did Ron suspect the truth? Did he know? “I’m not stupid, Hermione.” 

“I never said that,” she cried, and Harry heard Delphi beginning to fuss. He lowered his head and opened the door, stepping into the room before looking up. 

“Is Delphi up here with you lot?” he asked, trying his best to sound casual. 

“Here she is,” said Hermione with a forced smile. She picked the fussing baby up from the narrow single bed she had been wriggling on, snapping her outfit back into place deftly. “Just needed a new nappy.” 

“Ron,” said Harry, nodding in his friends direction. The redhead merely nodded in return, his lips pressed tightly together into a thin line, his jaw clenched. 

“The pair of you still coming round to Grimmauld Place after dinner?” 

Hermione glanced at Ron who remained still and expressionless. “We’ll be there,” she said, and narrowed her gaze. 

“Right,” said Harry. “I’m heading back down for some trifle then. I’ll leave you be.” 

When the door closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief and climbed down the stairs to the kitchen. 

oOoOoOoOo

**Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place**

Her room was the one beside his, and he left the doors open between them each night, listening carefully for any sound which might indicate he was needed. For the most part, she slept soundly, but there had been the odd night since her arrival when she had woken in the hours after midnight, whimpering and sobbing, and clearly suffering from some sort of nightmare. On those nights, he had held her until she had soothed and fallen asleep once more. He couldn’t bear the thought of doing anything less. 

Now, as he lowered her down into the crib, her body limp in sleep, he took a moment to survey the room. It was pretty enough, he thought. Hermione had helped him with the furniture and the decorations, insisting on some sort of theme when they had scoured the muggle shops. Harry hadn’t had any idea nurseries needed themes, but Hermione had seemed certain. As a result, Delphi’s room was decorated with atlases and globes and an interesting looking spyglass Harry had found in an antiques shop to complete the “adventure” theme they had settled on. Delphi didn’t seem to care one whit about the decor, but she did enjoy the toys Harry had filled a whole shopping cart with. She looked at each and every one as if it were something new and completely foreign to her. She took her time studying them and imitating Harry as he demonstrated their uses, delighting in her ability to do as he had done. Her favorite, however, was a little plush lamb which fit perfectly into the crook of her arm, and which Harry now settled into the crib beside her head. 

With one last glance about the room, Harry stepped back into the hallway. He lifted his wand and cast a murmured charm which would alert him to any disturbance within the nursery before descending the stairs toward the basement kitchen. He thought briefly about seeing what was in the refrigerator before dismissing the idea. He was still stuffed from dinner, and Hermione and Ron would be coming through the Floo at any moment. At least he hoped they would be. Merlin but they’d been tense when he had left them in Bill’s old room. He knew Ron had a temper and that his friend hated being kept in the dark; he should have expected that he wouldn’t just swallow the story he and Hermione had concocted without complaint. Ron was clever and not easily duped, and his sense of loyalty meant that he didn’t deal well with any sort of betrayal, real or perceived. What would happen if he found out about where Delphi had really come from? Harry only hoped that he and Hermione would be able to restrain Ron before he did anything incredibly stupid or irreversible. 

Hermione. Christ, was it even fair of him to ask Hermione to keep something so huge from her boyfriend? From their  _ best friend _ ? No wonder the couple’s relationship had seemed strained of late; it was probably a direct result of the secrets Harry had been sowing between them. Ron wasn’t stupid—of course he had realized that Hermione was disappearing more often… Was it any wonder that he seemed to suspect something more salacious was happening? Harry dismissed the thought with a frown. No, just because Hermione was gone more often was no reason to accuse her of something as base as carrying on with his best friend. If it were him in Ron’s place, he would never—

Harry clamped a steel lid on the thought. He had no business—couldn’t let himself think about—

_ Whoosh _ . The Floo flared to life and Harry sprang from his seat at the table, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he watched first Hermione and then Ron come through, each stepping into the kitchen covered in a thin layer of green dust. 

“Hi Harry,” Hermione breathed, her smile not really reaching her eyes as she bounded into the room. “Is Delphi asleep already?” 

“Just barely. Ron, what’ve you got there?” Harry motioned to the lumpy foil package beneath Ron’s arm. 

Ron, who had been standing stiffly, looked down at the parcel, his expression softening as he held it out for Harry to take. “Left overs,” he said. “Mum thought you may want them.” 

“Thanks.” Harry grinned, taking the food and tucking it into the refrigerator before turning back to face his two friends. “Fancy a game of wizard’s chess?” 

Ron smiled, nodding gratefully, and Harry caught Hermione’s eye as they made their way up to the drawing room. She smiled encouragingly and followed Ron, taking the hand he extended for her and allowing him to lead her to the nearest bookshelf. 

After Harry had lost his second game in a row, he laughed, settling back in his chair with his hands behind his head. 

“Well,” he teased, “a life of luxury at your mum’s doesn’t seem to have affected your head for strategy.” 

“It’s certainly affected one of my heads, I’ll tell you that much,” Ron laughed, apparently unphased by the murderous look Hermione was now aiming at him. 

“Ron!” 

“I’m only saying, the woman’s got a nose for it. Every time I look at you sideways, she’s sauntering into the room.” 

“Your mother doesn’t saunter,” Hermione said, “and it’s not as if we’ve been up to anything more than—” She fell silent abruptly, her eyes widening as if she’d only just realized Harry was still in the room. Apparently mortified, she blushed to her roots and lifted the book she had been reading up to her nose. 

Harry and Ron both fell into fits of laughter as Hermione seethed quietly. At last, she seemed to have had enough, because she slammed down her book and strode from the room, muttering under her breath about “disgusting, incorrigible boys” before disappearing from sight. Harry and Ron laughed for nearly a full minute more before they were able to contain themselves, each wiping at the corners of their eyes and running a hand through their hair. 

“Blimey,” Ron said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her that red. I’m going to pay for that later, aren’t I?” 

“Undoubtedly,” Harry confirmed, standing to retrieve the bottle of firewhisky he’d found stashed in a sideboard after moving in. He conjured two glasses and filled them with the amber liquid, offering one to Ron, who took it eagerly. 

“As many as we can before Hermione comes back?” Ron asked challengingly. Harry laughed but shook his head. 

“Can’t,” he said. “Who’ll take care of Delphi if I get sloshed?” 

“Bloody hell, you’re right,” Ron said, going pale as he settled back in his chair, as if the thought of his friend as a father were terrifying. “I keep forgetting.” 

“Well, you haven’t had a chance to get used to it, have you?” Harry asked. “I mean, I know this changes things. I don’t think I really understood until tonight that it’s not just me affected.”

“No, you’re not,” Ron agreed, looking more sedate now as he sipped his firewhisky. He seemed to want to say more but thought better of it, pressing his mouth into a familiar thin line instead. 

“What is it?” Harry asked, aware that he would very likely not like the answer. 

“It’s nothing,” Ron dismissed.

“You’re a piss poor liar, Ron.” 

“What do you want me to say?” Ron looked away, staring into the fireplace on the wall opposite him. 

“I want you to say what’s on your mind,” Harry prompted, taking care to keep his own voice low and neutral. He didn’t want to provoke Ron, but he needed to know what his friend was thinking. If he suspected the truth about Delphi... Harry had to know. 

“Alright,” said Ron, sounding determined now, “I think you might have jumped into this without thinking it through. What the hell do either of us know about raising a baby, mate?” Harry frowned. Was this what had Ron so tense? He was worried Harry wouldn’t know how to change a bloody nappy?

“What was I supposed to do?” asked Harry, aware that he sounded defensive but not sure how to say it any differently. “Leave her to be raised in some orphanage?”

“That’s  _ not _ what I’m saying,” Ron argued, and Harry could see the frustration mounting in the set of his shoulders. “But she might have been a Muggle, and then what would you have done? Do you know what happens to squibs in our world? You took her on before even thinking about what it might mean for her, or for anyone else. You didn’t think it through, mate!” 

“She’s not a Muggle,” Harry countered. “Magical adoption only works between two magical—”

“You don’t need to recite some textbook Hermione looked up for you, Harry. I know the kid’s not a Muggle, but she might of been, coming from your cousin. And that’s not the point anyway! I’m only saying you should have thought this through a bit more. I mean, did you even think of asking my Mum for advice, or telling Ginny what you were planning? We found out about it in the Prophet! We’re supposed to be your family, Harry, you don’t just keep things like this from the people who give a damn about you!” 

“That’s what this is about? You’re annoyed because I didn’t tell you first? I’m sorry, Ron, I didn’t realize I was expected to base my major life decisions off of your approval.” Harry’s tone was growing frosty now, and he knew he should do something, anything to defuse the situation before it got out of hand, but before he could think of something which might help, Ron was speaking again. 

“No, you’re only basing them off of my girlfriend’s. What, can’t be bothered to talk to your own?” 

There it is, thought Harry, there’s what’s really bothering him. And he knew that he should proceed delicately, knew that the last thing any of them needed was for him to prick at Ron’s pride… but a smug voice inside of him was beginning to form his words for him, was telling him that he had every  _ right _ to talk to Hermione, because  _ he _ had always been there for her when Ron was disappointing her.

“Well. Maybe she—”

“What on earth is going on in here?” 

The rational part of Harry’s brain was relieved at Hermione’s timely interruption, but a very real part of him was annoyed. He scowled in her direction, crossing his arms mutinously over his chest as Ron mirrored his posture exactly. 

“Ron, what have you done?!” Hermione exclaimed, rushing into the room and placing herself squarely between the two of them. 

“Of course you assume it’s me,” Ron spat. “Can’t be bothered to give me the benefit of the doubt.” 

“Ron please,  _ please _ . I asked you before we came not to—”

“He asked, Hermione! He asked me what I was thinking, and I told him! He’s my friend too, you know! I’m allowed to bloody well tell him when he’s being an idiot!” 

“An idiot? That’s what you think I’m being?” Harry could feel his blood boiling now, and as Ron squared his shoulder and clenched his jaw, he wanted nothing more than to punch the speckled git in the face. 

“Harry, he doesn’t mean it,” Hermione cried. “He just doesn’t understand what—”

“OF COURSE I DON’T UNDERSTAND! NEITHER OF YOU HAVE SAID MORE THAN TWO GODDAMNED WORDS TO ME IN WEEKS!” Ron’s bellow seemed to shake the walls, and as he whirled around to slam his palms against the wall at his back, they did tremble.

Abruptly, a chime sounded in Harry’s ear, and he glanced upwards. Delphi. The commotion had probably woken her. The hot anger and defensiveness which had burned through him a moment before seemed to recede in a rush, a wave washing backwards toward the sea. 

“I don’t understand why you couldn’t trust me,” Ron said, sounding defeated. Hermione let out a breath that sounded almost like a sob, the back of her hand pressed to her mouth. 

“Ron, please. Look at me,” she begged. Harry only watched as Ron’s shoulders seemed to sag and he moved as if to turn back around. There it was, the cue that meant he was ready to talk things through rationally, to listen...But then he froze. His broad shoulders stilled mid motion as his gaze seemed to rivet on a spot of wall in front of him. Confused, Harry’s eyes scanned over what he could see of the surface beyond Ron’s burly frame. The blood in his veins turned to ice. 

There, Ron’s hands digging into the fabric of it, hung the Black Family Tapestry. Harry remembered in a flash the last time the three of them had paid any attention to the thing. They had rowed. He could hear Ron’s voice echoing in his mind.  _ Why the hell do you think it’s worth protecting? _

“Ron?” Hermione questioned, not realizing why he must have stopped.    
  
But Harry knew.   
  
"We thought you'd died. You didn't say a word, walked into the forest, and . . . not even a goodbye. And Voldemort said . . ." Ron's voice grew tight as he spoke, every word sending panic through Harry's chest. He didn't dare speak. "And then that . . . horrible bitch tried to kill Hermione, tried to kill my sister, and my mum."   
  
Though Harry knew Bellatrix had not been behind it, the familiar grief-stricken tone that he'd come to associate with Fred's death was in Ron's voice now. Snatchers, Death Eaters, Bellatrix, Voldemort. They were all the same, all to blame, in Ron's eyes.   
  
"Ron?" Hermione said again, and Harry instinctively reached out to her, torn between needing her by his side and some parental drive to stay put, nearest to the staircase.   
  
"She did kill Sirius," Ron said, the grief in his voice changing, festering into anger. "Did you forget that?"   
  
And then he was exploding into motion, whirling around and pushing past Hermione to stand in front of Harry’s drawn wand. He hadn’t even realized he had raised it until Ron was pressing his chest against the tip.    
  
"Bellatrix killed your godfather, Voldemort killed you, and you . . . you . . you adopted that fucking thing?!” he said through gritted teeth. 

“Ron!” Hermione cried. 

“Get the hell out of my house.” Harry’s voice was deadly calm, his arm surging forward to shove the tip of his wand more deeply into Ron’s chest. He felt a spark of magic surge from his palm and through the wand, singeing Ron’s shirt and causing him to stumbled backwards, hissing in pain. 

“With pleasure,” he spat. 

Harry watched him leave, his wand trained on Ron’s back until he disappeared from sight. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

The Burrow

16 August 1998

The house was quiet by the time Hermione Flooed in. She had stayed at number twelve longer than she had expected, but she couldn’t bring herself to leave Harry after what had happened. Merlin, that had been a row. She wasn’t sure she’d seen anything as bad in all their years of friendship. Of course there had been spats and misunderstandings throughout the course of their lives—and the argument Harry and Ron had had under the influence of the Horcrux the year before—but none of those instances had even begun to rival this. What Ron had said—Christ. Hermione wasn’t Delphi’s parent, but even she had felt the instinct to protect the child at the vicious expression on Ron’s face. Why couldn’t he see that the long list of sins he had rattled off had nothing to do with the little girl left in their wake? She knew he was in pain, knew that he had suffered, but even that could not excuse the blind hatred he had exhibited. 

She stood at the foot of the stairs, dreading what she knew was about to happen. She thought briefly of returning to her own room, the one she shared with Ginny on the first floor, but she knew that to do so would only mean postponing the inevitable. So she climbed, her feet settling on each step with a heavy thump as she made her way up to the familiar door with its Chudley Canons poster on the outside. After several fortifying breaths she knocked. 

It took nearly a full minute of waiting at the door before she heard the bedsprings inside of the room shift and the pacing of sock clad feet approach the door. Ron only opened it a crack, one of his red rimmed blue eyes peering through warily. 

“Ron,” Hermione said, her tone making the word a request. He seemed to hesitate before finally taking a step back, pulling the door open with him to allow her entrance. 

His room was as it had always been. Quidditch posters lined the walls, and the scent of broom polish permeated the air. Tinted with subtle spearmint undertone which she had come to associate with him. His bed was narrow and shoved into the far corner, and she could see his old school trunk still open at the foot of his bed, as if he hadn’t yet had time to unpack it properly. 

“What do you want?” Ron asked. He sounded tired, and his voice was hoarse. Hermione felt an ache in her chest at the sudden realization that he had been crying. 

“Just to talk,” she said. 

Ron sniffed, turning his back to her as he leaned down to pull the quilt up over his bed before sitting down on the edge. His hands were folded tightly in his lap. “What about? I’m kind of tired.” 

Hermione sat beside him on the bed, close enough that she could feel the brush of his elbow against her side. He flinched, shifting until they were no longer touching. Hermione felt tears begin to prick at her eyes. 

“Ron, I never meant to—” she began, but Ron’s loud scoff stopped her mid sentence. 

“Come on, Hermione. The least you can do is be honest. We both know that whatever the hell you and Harry did, you meant to do it.” Ron’s eyes were closed tight now, as if he were both anticipating and dreading whatever it was he thought Hermione had to say.

“I swear to God, Ron. All I did was help him with Delphi. We’ve never—I mean, what you’re imagining never happened.” At that, Ron’s eyes flew open and narrowed. His nostrils flared as his hands clenched tightly in his lap. 

“What exactly is it you think I’m imagining?” he asked, his voice low and angry. Hermione wondered suddenly whether she had made a mistake and said the wrong thing. 

“I thought…” her voice trailed off.

“That I thought the pair of you were messing around behind my back?” 

Hermione nodded stiffly, and Ron swore, rising from the bed and striding to the wall across the room, as if he couldn’t stand to sit beside her for a second longer. 

“Merlin, Morganna, and Circe. How stupid do you think I am, Hermione?” He swore again and ran a hand through his hair, tugging at it in frustration before turning to face her again. “I’ve never thought you—not since that bloody horcrux got into my head. I  _ trust _ you, and I  _ trust _ Harry, which is why it’s such a fucking punch in the gut to find out you don’t feel the same.” 

“Ron that’s not true!” Hermione sprang from the bed then, but Ron held up a hand, his palm facing her as if to warn her to keep her distance. “Ron,” she heard herself whimper. “Of course we trust you.” 

“Just not with the important things,” Ron said, and Hermione felt a familiar swell of frustration at his intentional misunderstanding. 

“You called her a thing, Ron! Harry’s daughter!” 

“Her parents killed my family!” he hissed in return, his expression thunderous. “I’m sorry if my instinct isn’t to coddle her.” 

“And you wonder why we were hesitant to tell you the truth,” Hermione said, her voice steely. 

Ron let out a cold laugh. “There it is,” he said. “I knew you two were lying to me about something. Thanks for the confirmation.” 

“Alright, yes,” Hermione said, her shoulders stiff as she caught Ron’s gaze and peered into it with as much steely strength as she could manage. “We kept it from you. I went with Harry to find Delphi, and we rescued her. You wouldn’t believe the condition she was living in—not that you would have cared given who she had the misfortune of being born to—but we couldn’t leave her where she was, so we took her.” 

“Bloody hell,” Ron collapsed against the dresser at his back, covering his face with his hands as Hermione continued. 

“We took her to a hospital, and then I healed her. We decided the safest thing to do for her—and for us—was to tell everyone she was a Dursley and to keep her.” 

“Do you even hear yourself?” Ron asked, disbelieving. “You stole a baby, Hermione!”

“I would do it again!” she exclaimed, breathing hard. “You didn’t see her!” 

“No, I must have missed the invitation to go on that little outing,” he sneered in return. 

“You made your position very clear before we even considered—”

“We,” interrupted Ron. “We. You’re talking as if you adopted her together, but you didn’t, Hermione! Why are you so bloody defensive about a brat that’s not even yours!?” 

“She  _ is _ mine!” Hermione cried before she could even examine the implications of what she was saying. She took several deep breaths and then crossed her arms tightly across her chest, letting her eyes flutter closed and then open again. “She’s my goddaughter,” she finished at last. “She’s my responsibility as well as Harry’s. I’m sorry if you can’t accept that.” 

“Are you?” Ron was staring at her now, his expression unreadable, his arms crossed stiffly. Hermione thought he looked resigned, and a horrible, sinking feeling settled into the pit of her stomach. 

“I am,” Hermione said, her voice breaking on the words but her expression still fierce.

From his place opposite the room, Ron nodded, blinked several times, and then looked over her shoulder, his eyes fixed on one of the many posters over her head. After several quiet seconds, he sniffed and lifted one of his hands to wipe at his nose. 

“Ron. Please,” Hermione begged, her voice small and miserable now. “We don’t have to talk about this right now. Maybe we both need time to think things through before we do something rash.” 

“Time,” echoed Ron. “You think time is what we need?” He laughed humorlessly. “Will time make you trust me?” 

“I trust you,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. 

“More than you trust Harry?” He sounded determined, and Hermione flinched at the accusation in his tone. How could he ask her to compare them? 

“That’s not a fair question,” she protested, but Ron shook his head and held up a hand. 

“It is,” he argued. “I’m not just your friend, Hermione. I’m your boyfriend. If you can’t trust me any more than you trust Harry, then what’s the bloody point?”

There were wet tears trailing down her cheeks now, and Hermione found it difficult to breathe, to put into words what she thought she ought to say. She loved Ron, had loved him since the beginning… but she knew the truth that she had worked so hard to shield herself from since the end of the war… She didn’t love him in the way that she should.

“Shit,” Hermione said, wiping at the tears on her cheeks furiously. 

“Oh,” Ron said, the word coming out on a surprised exhale, as if he hadn’t really been expecting her response after all. But he bit his lip, blinking fast as he tightened his arms around himself and looked at the door. 

“I am so sorry,” Hermione said fisting her hands into his quilt as she struggled to watch him through bleary eyes. “Ron, I care for you so much. You’re one of my best friends, and I don’t know what I’d do without you.” 

Ron nodded, refusing to meet her gaze. She could hear him sniffing, could see his shoulders shaking as he worked to control his reaction. 

“Please look at me,” she whispered. He turned, and his wet blue eyes met her brown ones. She bit her lip as he wiped away the tears on his face with the back of his hand and nodded. 

“I get it,” he said. And then he continued, “Look, I really am very tired. Could we maybe—” his voice broke and he pressed his mouth together tightly before nodding once at the door. 

Hermione stood as if the bed had scalded her, aching to go to him and wrap her arms around him. No matter how furious she might have been, she couldn’t stand the thought of not trying to relieve the ache he must be feeling deep in the pit of his stomach, an ache which mirrored her own.

“‘Mione, please,” he said in a voice that was more whimper than anything else. She rushed to the door, a fleeting thought crossing her mind and making her pause with her hand on the doorknob.

“You won’t tell anyone about Delphi?” She realized too late that it was the wrong thing to say. She watched the pain in his eyes deepen and his face twist into a furious scowl. 

“I only meant—” Hermione began, but she was cut off. 

“I know what you meant,” Ron said, “And you can tell Harry I haven’t got any interest in outing his little Death Eater.” His voice broke again, and he turned his back on her with a whirl, his hands clenching the edges of the dresser as his head fell forward. His back seemed to radiate tension as she watched. 

“He’s my best friend too, Hermione,” he said, his voice pained. “I would never—I don’t have to like her to realize she’s his goddamned kid. I couldn’t do that to him. I’m not a monster.” 

Hermione knew what he meant, but she could not help but notice that even as he swore his allegiance to Harry, he continued to other the child which she had sworn to protect. He  _ stilI  _ saw Delphi as little more than Bellatrix and Voldemort’s offspring. 

“Swear to it,” she said, her voice even as she turned to look at him once more. She watched him grow completely still, recognized the anger brewing beneath the service as he turned stiffly and looked her square in the eye. She could see the pain and the anger and the helplessness mixed there, and she shivered. 

“I swear on my wand and on my magic that I will neither reveal the secrets of, nor seek to cause harm to Delphini Potter.” He fell silent, his eyes burning for a moment before he spoke again. “Now get the fuck out of my room, Hermione.” 

She fled. 

oOoOoOoOo

She packed without really thinking, seizing anything she recognized as hers and stuffing it into the little beaded bag she still carried. As she moved about the room, plucking scarves and books off of various surfaces, she took care not to disturb the girl sleeping beneath the window. Ginny, too, had had a long day, and the last thing Hermione needed now was to be confronted by a girl just as emotionally compromised as herself. When, at last, Hermione had managed to stow away everything of hers in sight, she turned to the door, closing it gently behind her and making her way down the stairs to the sitting room. 

“Hermione?” She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of Molly’s voice coming from behind her. Hand over her heart, Hermione turned to face the older woman standing in the kitchen doorway. She was dressed in her nightgown, a robe pulled on over the top and tied at the waist, and there were slippers on her feet.

“Molly, you scared me,” she said without thinking, and then winced when she noticed the other woman arch a brow. 

“I didn’t mean to, dear. But what are you doing up at this hour?” She crossed her arms, not in the stern way Hermione had seen her do countless times before, but in a casual manner that gave her pause. 

“Shit,” Hermione swore. “You’ve heard us.” 

Molly gave her a sympathetic smile and nodded. “I’m afraid it was a bit hard to miss the raised voices, though I didn’t really hear  _ what _ was being said.”

Thank God for small miracles, Hermione thought. 

“I’m so sorry to have woken you,” she apologized, the relief at not having inadvertently given any of Harry’s secrets away being promptly overshadowed by the reality of what she had actually been fleeing. 

“What happened, dear?” Molly asked, her brow furrowing as she uncrossed her arms and tilted her head to the side. “We heard you rowing, but it can’t have been all that bad.” 

The woman was ever the optimist, and Hermione felt her stomach tighten as she contemplated saying the words she knew she must to get out of the house. 

“We’ve broken up,” she said. The words sounded cold and inadequate to describe what had happened, barely beginning to cover the cause of the deep ache she felt in her gut. She and Ron had done more than just broken up; they had broken. 

“Oh, love,” Molly said, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around the girl trembling in her living room. “Hush now, you’ll be alright.” Hermione did not realize until Molly embraced her that she had begun to cry once more. She felt ashamed that she had hurt Ron, and that, unknowingly, his mother was comforting her. 

“I’m alright,” she said through hiccuping sobs, “Really, you should see if Ron needs—” 

“I’d wager what Ron needs is a swift kick in arse,” Molly interrupted, pushing Hermione back by the shoulders just enough so that could see her face. “My sons are good men,” she continued, “but they all have their flaws. Ron’s is a surplus of pique.” Hermione laughed through the tears despite herself, enjoying the warm acceptance still radiating from the other woman’s face. “Now, I want you to dry your tears and come have a chat with me. I won’t have you running off into the night like some sort of vagabond.” 

With that, Molly released Hermione’s arms, patting her on the shoulder before heading to a tall bookshelf near the front door. With a conspiratorial grin in Hermione’s direction, she reached for a book on the bottom shelf, pulling it out and plucking what looked like a deck of muggle playing cards from behind it. 

“Curious as my children are, not one of them has ever thought to pull out my copy of  _ Housewitch Charms for the New Century _ . Fancy that.” As she drew closer, Hermione realized that she was not holding a deck of cards, but a package of half smoked cigarettes. 

“Molly!” she said in shock. 

“Come on, into the garden,” the older which said, taking Hermione and leading her by the crook of the arm into the back garden to sit on a bench near the hedge. As they sat, Molly placed one of the cigarettes between her lips and lit it expertly with her wand tip before offering one to Hermione as well. She accepted, rolling the cigarette between her fingers until Molly lit it as well. 

“I’ve never had one of these before,” Hermione admitted. 

Molly chuckled. “I should hope not. They’re a nasty habit. Still, they are useful in times of stress. I swear I smoked a pack in a night after the funeral.” 

Hermione raised the thing to her lips, inhaling briefly and then coughing loudly. Molly patted her on the back until she had recovered, exhaling her own puff of smoke neatly out of the corner of her mouth. 

“You know dear,” she said, settling her back against the hedge as Hermione let the cigarettes burn in her hand, “I know it probably feels very much like the end of the world right now, but you’ll get on.” 

“God, I hope so,” Hermione breathed. “I feel so very… stupid.” 

“Nonsense,” Molly dismissed. “You’re an exceptionally bright young woman. Whatever happened between the two of you, it was meant to happen, and I have every confidence you’ll both come to realize it.” Hermione grew still and Molly gave her a friendly smile. “I’m not saying any of us  _ wanted _ it to happen, but we don’t have control over fate, do we?” 

“I suppose not,” Hermione said, trying for another drag on the cigarette and coughing again as if on cue. 

“Look at Harry,” Molly continued. “All of eighteen years old, and a father. I’d wager it was a shock to him when he was asked to take the child in, but he knew what he had to do, and now anyone can see plain as day that he’s doing what he’s meant to do. Life doesn’t deal us the hand we expect, does it?” 

“You’d think it might give you some hints though,” Hermione said bitterly. Molly exhaled and shook her head. 

“No,” she said, “it always blindsides you. In the end though, I think fate usually does the best it can by us.” She paused, taking another drag on her cigarette before seeming to decide on something. She turned to look Hermione full in the face. “You wouldn’t know this, but I was married once before Arthur.” 

Hermione gasped audibly. “What?” She asked, sure she had misheard. 

“Oh yes,” Molly confirmed. “He was brilliant and charming.” She laughed at some memory and waved her cigarette at Hermione. “He’s the one who turned me onto these daft things.” And then, as suddenly as the light in her eyes had appeared, it faded, replaced by hard steel. “He was not, however, a very good man. In the end, the Order killed him.”

“Oh God, Molly, I’m sorry,” Hermione began, but the other woman held up a hand to quiet her. 

“We were only married for a short while, Hermione. I divorced him a few months after we left Hogwarts, when it became clear whose pocket he was really living in. I met Arthur again not long after that, and we became the best of friends, and the rest is history. Now, I’m not comparing my Ron to my first husband, because there really is no comparison. My son’s a better man on every level… but I will say that first loves are often learning experiences. They reveal things to us, help us to know ourselves better.” She turned and met Hermione’s eye. “Do you understand?” 

Hermione nodded blearily. 

“Good,” Molly said, lifting her cigarette once more. 

“I just…” Hermione hesitated. 

“Go on,” Molly prodded. 

“I’m afraid,” Hermione admitted. “The last thing I want is to lose any of you, and I feel as if I’ve ruined it all.” 

“Poppycock,” Molly exclaimed. “Why on earth would you be afraid of that? You’re not any less my daughter than Harry is my son, and I’ll tell you, someone would have to pry my cold dead hands off of that boy before I’d give him up.” Hermione felt herself become enveloped in Molly’s warm embrace and allowed her eyes to close. As they did, she pictured her own mother, thousands of miles across the world with no memory of her daughter at all. She began to cry anew. 

When she had quieted again Molly released her, extinguishing her cigarette on the bench and lighting another. Hermione let her own fall to the ground. 

“Now, where was it you were planning to go tonight, young lady?” Molly asked at last. 

Hermione shrugged. 

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” she admitted. “I probably would have just ended up at Harry’s, to be honest.” 

“Are you still planning on going back to Hogwarts in September?” 

Hermione nodded. “I am. Professor McGonagall’s assured me a quiet year. I think I need that.” 

“Of course you do, and what’s more is, you deserve it,” Molly agreed. She fell silent for a few moments before continuing. “Ginny will be back too, of course.”

“I’ve been looking forward to sharing a room with someone who can talk about more than fashion magazines,” Hermione said, giving Molly a watery smile. 

“You’ll look after her, won’t you?” Molly asked, “I have a feeling she’ll need a good friend to keep her on track this year.” 

Hermione swallowed as Molly turned to meet her gaze. Could she be saying what Hermione thought she was?

“Ginny is a good girl,” Molly continued, “but that’s just what she is, a girl. She’s not ready for the life Harry’s got, and I think very soon she’ll realize it.” She sighed. “She’s not like you, Hermione, and that’s not a bad thing or a good thing, only… she’s going to need a friend to remind her that it’s okay.”

“Of course,” Hermione agreed. “No matter what she decides, she’ll still be my friend. I don’t think anyone would think less of her.” 

“She’ll think less of herself, for a while,” Molly whispered, and there was a faraway look in her eye that Hermione couldn’t quite place. But before Hermione could dwell too much on it, the other woman seemed to snap back to the present, flicking her cigarette onto the ground and crushing in with the toe of her slipper. 

“Right,” she said, “It’s cold out here, and we should go back in before we catch our deaths. You’ll be Flooing to Harry’s?” 

Hermione nodded and stood, wrapping her traveling cloak tightly around herself and then tensing as Molly leaned towards her. But there was no need, the older woman merely enveloped her in another embrace, her hands pressing into Hermione’s back and drawing her closer as she whispered fiercely in her ear. 

“I’ve known you since you were twelve years old, Hermione Granger,” she said, “and in all that time I’ve never once known you to not do the smart thing. Tonight is no different. You’ve done what needed doing, and painful as it may be, you’ll come to appreciate it in time.” She pulled away and Hermione felt her damp cheeks grow cold in the night air. “Now, off you trot. Tell Harry I expect to hear from him tomorrow, and that I’ll set places for the lot of you at Sunday supper.” 

“Yes ma’am,” Hermione said, grateful and exceedingly emotional. 

Molly laughed. 

“Such cheek,” she said, and then disappeared back into the house, her lilac terrycloth robe the last thing Hermione saw. 

Hermione watched her go, bemused at the moment they had just shared. Never in her life would she have expected to converse with Ron’s mother so openly. It had almost felt as if… Hermione sniffled and wiped at her nose as she followed Molly into the house, thinking as she went that it had seemed for a moment as if things would really be alright. 

  
  



	12. Chapter 12

Number 12 Grimmauld Place

30 August 1998

“Get up, Harry.” 

He jerked awake at the sound of Hermione’s voice, loud in the otherwise quiet room. The first thing he noticed was the weight on his arm. He looked to his right, relaxing at the sight of tousled black curls and an angelic, sleeping face pressed against his forearm. His disoriented world seemed to center on the child napping beside him, and Harry felt the last bit of sleep sliding off of him as he woke fully from whatever dreams he had been immersed in. 

A loud snap made his shoulders tense as he turned to look behind him, just in time to see the drapes finish separating and a stream of sunshine filtering through into his bedroom. Hermione stowed her wand as Harry looked up at her in confusion. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice still raspy with sleep. 

“Oh for heavens sake,” she responded, her hands settling on her hips as she glared down at him imperiously. “It’s one o clock on a Sunday, and you’re still in bed. Normally I’d leave you to languish, but when you’re involving my goddaughter in your slovenly habits I’m afraid I can’t just stand by. Now get up, and get dressed. We’re going out.” 

Harry groaned and rolled Delphi far enough that he could wriggle his arm out from under her. She stirred at the disturbance but did not wake. “Where are we supposed to be going?” he asked, rubbing a hand through his hair before feeling the stubble on his cheeks. Merlin it had gotten long. When was the last time he had shaved? He wasn’t even sure what was on his face could be properly termed stubble anymore; it felt almost beard length. 

“Diagon Alley,” Hermione answered, opening Harry’s dresser and plucking a pair of jeans and a faded blue shirt from its depths, both of which she sent floating across the room to him with a casual wave of her hand. 

“What for?” Harry caught the articles of clothing out of the air, noticing as if for the first time that he was not actually wearing any sort of shirt. He blushed and pulled the one Hermione had picked out over his head. It was ridiculous, he thought. It wasn’t as if Hermione had never seen him without a shirt on before… but somehow, here in his bedroom at number twelve with Delphi still sleeping soundly behind him, it felt vaguely inappropriate. 

“I’m back to Hogwarts the day after tomorrow,” Hermione reminded him, and Harry felt his stomach drop. 

“Oh. Right,” he said. “I’d forgotten.” And he had, though perhaps ‘intentionally refused to think about’ would have been a better description of what he had done concerning her return to school. It had been two weeks since she had shown up on his doorstep in the dead of night, her beaded bag in tow and her relationship with Ron behind her, and since then, they had found a rhythm which included all of them—Harry, Delphi, and Hermione. He hated to think of the change that would come with her departure—of what she would take with her. 

“Haven’t you got all your books already?” he asked, thinking of all the reading she had done since she arrived. 

“Of course,” Hermione answered, “but my uniform has gotten a bit…tight, and I need new potion stores.” 

Harry blushed again, thinking of the places Hermione’s uniform might have gotten tight before thrusting the thought from his head and standing. It hadn’t even been a month since she and Ron had ended their relationship, and it had been barely a week since a tearful Ginny had arrived at Grimmauld place and told Harry that though she loved him, she couldn’t in good conscience continue their relationship. She wasn’t ready to be a mother, she had said. Harry’s heart twinged, and he frowned. He had loved Ginny. He still did, though the feeling did not burn as it once had. He had no right to think of Hermione as anything but a good friend, and spending time considering the womanly curves which had appeared in the year since Voldemort’s downfall could only lead to disappointment. 

“Come on, Delphi love, up you get,” Hermione trilled, her voice taking on the musical quality it only seemed to when she was addressing Harry’s daughter. He watched as she lifted the little girl into her arms, dropping kisses on her cheeks as her dark eyes opened and she began to smile sleepily. “There you are,” Hermione said. “How about a clean nappy and a sensible outfit for you?” 

“My,” said Delphi, looking pleased. 

“That’s right, I’m Hermione,” said Hermione, seemingly delighted. Harry smiled and watched his friend leave the room. Merlin but Delphi was smart. He had learned it was common for children her age to have a few words, but the ease with which she had begun to address him as “Da” and Hermione as “My” had surprised him. He supposed he had not expected her to become verbal so quickly, not after the start she had had with Rowle.

He felt his shoulders grow tense at the thought of Delphi’s past and pushed the memory aside, focusing instead on the familiar ritual he followed each morning. Before he knew it, he was dressed, with clean teeth, and a cloak fastened over his shoulders. The beard, he had decided to leave intact, enjoying the fact that it made him look at least old enough to have a child. Thank god it had started growing in fully instead of in patches as it once had. 

Emerging from his room, Harry descended to the kitchen, where he found Hermione feeding a fully dressed Delphi pieces of banana and toast. He ate quickly along side them, and by the time they were done he had finished. He crossed the room to the Floo, grabbing a fistful of emerald green powder from the silver box on the mantle and using his wand to light a fire in the hearth. 

“After you,” he said to Hermione, tossing the Floo powder into the flames and stepping aside to make room for her and Delphi. She smiled gratefully and stepped into the fire, the ethereal green flames licking at her hair and Delphi’s toes as she said clearly, “Diagon Alley,” and disappeared with a whoosh. 

oOoOoOoOo

Diagon Alley

30 August 1998

Delphi loved people, and no matter where she went, she managed to enchant them. At Madam Malkin’s, she spent the entire time engaging the seamstress with smiles and cooing words that only she seemed to understand. Meanwhile, Hermione flipped through a catalogue of dress robes, pointing to the ones that appealed to her as she went. 

“What about this one?” she asked, turning the booklet around for Harry to see. He made a face. 

“It’s very bright,” he commented. Hermione made an impatient noise and thrust the catalogue under his nose.

“That’s why it comes in different colors,” she informed him, tapping the little square at the bottom of the page which was flashing between bright colors and more sedate ones. “I was thinking in a dusky rose.” 

Harry squinted at the dress as it twirled on the page, the skirt swaying nicely with each rotation. “I guess,” he said, though he didn’t sound very sure at all. Hermione made an impatient sound and pulled the catalogue back towards her, flipping through the pages again as she began to mutter. 

“Honestly,” she said under her breath. “Defeats a Dark Lord but can’t help me pick out a bloody dress.” 

“What was that?” Harry asked. 

“Nothing.” Hermione glanced up at him as she closed the booklet at last. He was watching her with one dark brow arched and his bright green eyes seeming to take in everything. 

“What?” She asked, feeling startled but unsure of why. 

“Nothing.” Harry echoed her own reply back to her and she felt herself begin to blush. Circe, what was wrong with her? 

“Da?” Delphi’s voice rose panicked from the other side of the shop, and Hermione looked up along with Harry. They stood at the same time, but before she could move Harry was striding towards where his daughter sat with several spools of unwound ribbon on the carpet around her. 

“I’m still here, Delph. Daddy’s here.” He scooped her up with a smile, and she clutched at his shirt, laying her head on his shoulder as she smiled in Hermione’s direction. 

“I’ve got your uniforms ready,” Madame Malkin called as she closed a cabinet near where Delphi had been sitting. She walked over to them, her own floral robes fluttering as she walked. “Would you like to try them?” 

“God no,” Hermione said, wrinkling her nose. “I trust you.” 

Madam Malkin smiled and sent a neat stack of clothes spinning through the air with a wave of her hand. They landed on the front counter where they were wrapped in brown paper and bound with string. 

“Was there anything else you wanted, dear?”

Hermione glanced back at the catalogue of dress robes before shaking her head. 

“That’s everything,” she answered. They paid with little trouble after that, and soon Hermione, Harry, and Delphi were on the street again, the sun beating down on them as they made their way across the Alley towards the ice cream parlor opposite the seamstress’ shop. 

“Christ, it’s still weird seeing seeing a new name on the place.” Harry stopped outside of the parlor, looking up at the sign which hung over the restored windows. Hermione let herself look too. She knew that Mr. Fortescue had been killed during the war, but Harry was right, seeing someone else’s name there was still jarring. 

“Shall we?” Hermione asked, opening the door and holding it ajar as she motioned Harry into the shop. It was busier than she remembered it—the whole alley seemed to be lately—and given it was a warm day, she probably shouldn’t be overly surprised that the dispenser of sweet frozen treats was over-run. Wading through the crowd of people queuing for a treat, Hermione sat down at a blessedly empty table near the window. She held her hands out to Delphi as Harry neared, feeling gratified as the girl reached back for her as Harry settled the baby onto her lap. 

“I’ll grab us all something if you wait here,” Harry offered. “Craving anything in particular?” 

Hermione scanned the menu before shaking her head and offering Harry a smile. “You choose.”

“Be right back, love,” Harry said, leaning down to peck Delphi’s forehead with his lips and then wading back to the end of the line. 

“Da,” Delphi said as Harry was obscured by a tall, round witch herding three Hogwarts aged teens. Hermione thought the eldest looked familiar but couldn’t name them. Probably someone in fifth year in a different house. 

“Daddy will be right back,” Hermione assured Delphi, turning her around on her lap so that she could look the girl in the eye. She was always surprised by how lovely they were. She remembered those same grey irises flecked with shards of graphite and encircled by obsidian as they had stared down at her in the Malfoy drawing room. How could they be so different in this face? Where Bellatrix’s eyes had gleamed with cold fury, Delphi’s burned hot and curious, practically sparkling as she took in the world around her with amused delight. Hermione thought they were enchanting, something she hadn’t thought possible of the Black family before she met her goddaughter. As kind as Sirius had been to Harry, there had always been a certain madness, an emptiness in his gaze which Hermione now suspected he had learned in Azkaban. 

“Boo!” Hermione’s gazed snapped back to focus on Delphi, who was covering her cheeks with her chubby hands as she smiled up at Hermione, entertained already by the game she had initiated. 

“You want to play peek-a-boo, do you?” Hermione sang, covering her face with her own hands before lowering them and leaning in to kiss Delphi’s cheek. The girl shrieked with laughter and rocked backwards on Hermione’s lap far enough that she was forced to catch her before she went tumbling off. “Careful, darling.” 

“Boo!” 

Hermione pretending to nibble on the baby’s cheeks again and smiled widely at her delighted reaction. 

“Oh, I love that age,” came a woman’s voice from up above her, and Hermione looked up to see who had spoken. The tall witch with her three children had stopped beside Hermione’s table and was looking fondly down at them. “You be careful, or she’ll be off to Hogwarts while you’re blinking.” 

“Hopefully she’ll sleep through the night before then,” came Harry’s dry response from behind the woman. He was holding two ice cream sundaes and smiling kindly. 

“Never you worry,” the older woman laughed. “Before you know it, you’ll have to drag her out of bed in the morning. Merlin, she favors her father doesn’t she?” She looked back down at Delphi, taking in her dark hair and light eyes. “Except for the curls. Those are all mummy’s, aren’t they sweetie?” The last she directed at Delphi. Before Hermione could correct her about her status in Delphi’s life, the woman was wishing them all the best and traipsing across the room to sit at a table with her three children. 

“That was awkward,” Hermione said, shifting her gaze down to the sundae Harry had set in front of her. Delphi craned around to look at it and reached down to grab a fistful of whipped cream before Hermione could stop her. 

“Was it?” Harry’s voice was deep and pensive. It took her by surprise and made something in her stomach flutter. 

Hermione cleared her throat and nodded. 

“She thought we were a couple,” Hermione told him, pulling out her wand and pointing it at Delphi’s hand. “ _ Tergeo _ .” 

“Hmm.” Harry didn’t say anything else, only took a spoon and dipped it into his own ice cream, scooping out a minuscule amount and feeding it to Delphi where she sat in Hermione’s lap. The pair of them looked down in interest for her reaction, and when the baby pulled a face at the cold temperature, they laughed. 

“It will rot your teeth anyway,” Hermione said to her. 

“I promise I’ll brush all four of them very well.” Harry smiled and let her have another taste, this time of his banana which she enjoyed very much. The three of them demolished their sundaes without speaking, until at last they were full and simply enjoying the feeling of being out in public rather than cooped up in the dark interior of Grimmauld Place. Delphi seemed to love watching the people milling about the parlour, their cones and ice cream dishes in hand. Hermione found herself wondering whether the baby had ever been in public before Harry had rescued her. She shut the thought out before she could dwell on it further. Contemplating Delphi’s prior circumstances would lead to nothing but heartache. 

“What’s on your mind, Hermione?” She looked up to catch Harry’s eyes on her, their bright green irises charming in the light which filtered through the window beside them. 

“Nothing,” she answered. 

“There’s a lot of that going around today, isn’t there?” He was looking at her as if he could tell she was full of shite, and she forced a smile in response. 

“Fine, if you must know, I was thinking about your interview tomorrow.” 

“My what?” Harry looked confused, and Hermione took it in with satisfaction. 

“Your interview,” she repeated. “Kingsley fire-called two days ago and wanted to know whether you’d changed your mind about training this year.” 

“What? I never spoke to Kingsley!” 

“Well, lucky I was there to take the call then. He said if you were interested, the last round of interviews were this week. I told him you could be in on Monday.”

“Hermione, you didn’t.” 

“I also bought you a pair of plain robes to wear. I understand you’re supposed to be able to move in them, so I stayed fairly basic. I don’t think wizards do the dressing up for interviews that Muggles tend to. Dress robes would be a bit much.” 

“Hermione,” he said, sounding for all the world as if he were trying to be patient with her. “I can’t just go to an interview. I’ve got a kid.” 

“And a live in babysitter until Tuesday,” Hermione reminded him. “I fail to see the problem.”

“And after the interview? When I’m an Auror and have to be at work? Do you expect me to carry her in to apprehend criminals with me?” 

“Cocky, are we? What’s to say you’ll even get the job?” 

Harry rolled his eyes and ran a hand over his beard. Hermione was disturbed by how appealing he looked doing it. 

“A hunch,” he said at last, his eyes practically twinkling. 

“I’m beginning to think you have just as big of a head as Professor Snape always said.” Hermione pretended for a moment to look as if she disapproved. 

“Maybe not the one he imagined,” Harry said, and before she had the chance to be properly shocked at his insinuation, Hermione could see the skin over his cheekbones beginning to pinken and a mortified expression plastering itself across his face. 

“Shit,” he said. “I didn’t mean—Fuck. Hermione, I’m sorry, I—“ 

She started laughing before he could say another word, her face falling forward as she struggled to bite her lip. Her hair tumbled down to land on top of Delphi’s head and over her face. The baby squaked in response, and Hermione tossed her hair back over her shoulders as they continued to shake. The  _ cheek _ of him!

“Merlin, Hermione. I shouldn’t have—" 

“Oh come off it, Harry,” she said, wiping at tears which had begun to form at the corners of her eyes. “I’ve been friends with you and Ron for seven years now. It’s not as if this is the first penis joke I’ve ever heard. For Christ’s sake, I walked in on you wanking the summer before fifth year. The male anatomy is  _ not _ that much of a mystery.”

“You walked in on— _ what _ ?!” 

“You blush very prettily, Harry.” 

She watched as he struggled to choke down the embarrassment and regain his composure. As he did so, she bounced Delphi on her knee and began to speak again. “In any event, I’ve spoken to Andromeda, and she’s assured me she would love to watch Delphi during work hours. She said—and I am quoting here—that it would be a pleasure.” 

Harry watched her in what looked like amazed silence, and Hermione felt herself beginning to fidget. She had thought she was doing the right thing when she had taken the initiative, but now, having revealed the extent of her meddling, she began to worry. What if Harry found it all less helpful and more intrusive? She knew that he had wanted to be an Auror ever since he was made aware that the profession existed, and she also knew that since Delphi’s arrival in his life, he hadn’t had the time to properly examine his options. She knew that she had overstepped, but she had hoped that the risk would yield positive fruit for Harry. 

“Of course,” she heard herself say, “if you aren’t interested in pursuing Auror work this year, I’m sure Kingsley and Andromeda will both understand. I only wanted you to have the option if you found you  _ did _ want to. Pursue a career I mean.” She was beginning to repeat herself now, and she winced, forcing her mouth closed as she looked down at Delphi. Merlin, she was just fucking up all of her relationships lately, wasn’t she?  _ Swell job, Hermione, _ she thought,  _ erase yourself from your parent's lives, break up with your boyfriend, and alienate your best friend. Sounds like you’ve really thought all of this through. _

“Okay.” Harry sounded more confident than she had expected. “I’ll do it. I’ll go in for the interview. I’m not saying I’ll take the job—"

“If you’re offered the job,” Hermione said, fighting to keep her expression serious. 

Harry smirked and leaned down to speak to Delphi. 

“Can you believe how oblivious your godmother’s gotten in her old age?” He glanced back up at Hermione. “We both know I’ll be accepted. Even if I weren’t Harry Potter, I still got brilliant marks in Defense.” 

“And so modest.” 

“Exactly.” 

Hermione was about to speak again to tell that him he should probably interview as if he weren’t aware there was likely already a cubicle somewhere in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement with his name on it, but she was interrupted by a bright, blinding light which came through the window beside them. 

“Harry! Over here!” 

She watched as Harry turned to face the source of the voice, looking through the window and in the direction of several photographers who began clicking away madly, the bulbous lights on their cameras flashing and making Harry wince. 

“Are you and Hermione a couple?!”

“How are you finding fatherhood?!”

“What does your girlfriend think of your close relationship with Miss Granger!?” 

The questions were shouted on top of one another, and as the flashing lights continued to flood the room, Delphi began to cry. 

“ _ Obscurent _ !” Hermione’s wand tip was pressed against the glass of the shop window, and as she spoke, the entire pane darkened until nothing was visible beyond it and no light penetrated from the sunny alley beyond. They were left in fluorescent lighting, all of the patrons around them staring in shocked silence as the cries of the reporters beyond the window continued to echo. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Harry said, his expression nearly as dark as the glass. He reached out and took the fussing Delphi from Hermione’s lap, holding her tightly in his arms as he turned and disapparated. Hermione shot a hex through the opaque window and smiled in satisfaction as someone outside screamed before following Harry out of the shop. 

oOoOoOoOoOo

Number 12 Grimmauld Place

30 August 1998

When Hermione returned to number twelve she had to look for Harry and Delphi. She found them at last in the drawing room, where Delphi played on the floor with a set of self stacking blocks which she delighted in knocking back down again. She appeared to have forgotten the shock of the photographers accosting them in Diagon Alley, and Hermione sighed in relief. Then she saw Harry. 

He sat on the couch, one ankle propped on his opposite knee and his hand covering his mouth as he stared into the fire. The flames flickered behind the child-proof barrier he had erected, sending eerie light to play across Harry’s face. 

She approached him warily, sitting a foot from him on the sofa and crossing her ankles as she leaned back. 

“I gave one of them tentacles and a third eye,” she said. She watched for a change to his expression and was rewarded with a flicker at the corner of his mouth. 

“They were out of line,” she continued. “They shouldn’t have just accosted you like that.” 

“I wanted to rip their fucking heads off,” Harry said, his voice low. “Shove a fucking camera at my kid like that. I wanted to end them. I had to get out of there, or I was going to do something I’d regret.” 

Hermione scooted closer to Harry, only stopping when she could feel the press of his leg against hers. “I wouldn’t have blamed you,” she said, leaning into him and letting her head rest on his shoulder. 

“I’m sure Kingsley wouldn’t thank me,” he said, lowering his hand until it rested half on his thigh and half on Hermione’s. 

“The Minister probably would have pardoned you within minutes,” Hermione assured him. 

“Yeah, well.” He didn’t seem capable of saying any more. Instead, he sighed and let his body relax into the seat as he watched Delphi play. Hermione closed her eyes, acutely aware of the weight of his hand still on her thigh as she felt herself begin to relax and drift off to sleep. 

  
  



	13. Chapter 13

The Burrow

30 August 1998

Molly opened the front door and ushered the three of them to the dinner table in a flurry. After the afternoon they had had in Diagon Alley, Harry had been prepared to forgo Dinner at the Burrow completely, but Hermione would not hear of it.  _ I don’t care how uncomfortable it makes us _ , she had said,  _ We’re not disappointing Molly the Sunday before term. _

“I’ve got a sauce on and it’s at a very delicate stage. You sit there and don’t think of letting anyone else hold that baby until I’ve had my chance.” Molly pushed Harry and Hermione down into their seats and ruffled Delphi’s curls affectionately before turning back to the stove where a wooden spoon was rotating inside of a small saucepan. 

“Harry, Hermione, what a pleasure to see you both! We missed you last week.” Harry looked up at the sound of Arthur’s voice, finding the older man at the opposite end of the table with a wide grin on his face. 

“I couldn’t miss Molly’s cooking two weeks in a row.” Harry smiled and set Delphi onto the empty chair to his left, transfiguring it almost simultaneously into a simple wooden high chair with a buckle that fit around her waist. Delphi clapped her hands and laughed from her new vantage point, leaning forward as far as she was able to and snagging a roll from the plate nearest her. As she began to bite into the bread, Harry surveyed the rest of the table. Near Arthur, Andromeda sat with baby Teddy cradled in one of her arms. To her left, Fleur was hanging on to Bill’s arm as she carried on an animated conversation with Andromeda about the merits of home birth. Harry wrinkled his nose and moved on to the other side of the table where he could see a girl he didn’t recognize seated between Percy and George. 

“Hermione.” Harry was distracted by the sound of a familiar voice behind him. His spine stiffened as he turned to face the source. 

“Ron,” Hermione said. The word came out on an exhale and Harry watched as she locked eyes with her ex-boyfriend. Merlin, that was an odd thought. 

“Harry.” 

He flinched, surprised at being addressed by the red-head but nodding in response all the same. 

“Ron,” he acknowledged. 

Silence fell for several beats until George spoke from the other side of Hermione.

“Well, there’s nothing awkward about this.” 

“Oh hush, you,” Molly said, turning back as the pot she had been stirring floated to an unlit burner. She leaned down to pick up Delphi from her seat. 

“Mind if I have a word?” Ron asked, his gaze trained on his shoes. 

Harry glanced sideways at Hermione, waiting for her cue. When she nodded, Harry stood with her, pausing only to tell Delphi that he would be back soon before following his two friends out of the kitchen and up to the familiar room beneath the attic. Ron’s bedroom seemed smaller than Harry remembered it with the three of them packed in. Ron stood awkwardly beside his bed before motioning for Harry and Hermione to sit. They did, Harry taking the lone chair in the room as Hermione and Ron sat on opposite sides of his narrow bed. He could see that though Hermione gave an outward impression of ease, her hands were clenched tightly in the frayed quilt which covered the bed. 

“What happened to your dresser?” Hermione asked, her eyes trained on the wooden furniture which was listing oddly to the side. 

“Foot broke,” Ron said with a shrug, and then bit his lip before shaking his head. “Merlin, I’m bad at this. Look—” He stood then, his hands tucked into the pockets of his trousers as his face turned bright red. “I’m sorry, alright? I said some shit things and I shouldn’t have. I lost my goddamned temper—not that that’s abnormal for me—but it was a mistake.”

“So calling my daughter a  _ thing _ was just a mistake, was it?” Harry heard himself speak before he had time to think through his response. 

“Harry,” Hermione said sharply. She gave him a pointed look, and he flushed, staring back down at his lap with the skin beneath his collar burning. She was right, dammit, the last thing he needed to do was make this any worse. But he was still so bloody furious!

“Yeah, it was,” Ron said, his voice more firm than Harry had expected. “I shouldn’t have said that.” Here he paused, face still burning as he looked down as his hands. “She’s your kid now. I know that. I just… It’s not an excuse, but I can’t stop thinking about  _ them _ . I see them when I close my eyes, when I look at George, when I dream at night, or hear Mum crying when she thinks we’ve all gone to sleep. They’re in my head, Harry. Do you know what that’s like?” 

Harry swallowed, his eyes burning. 

“I do,” he answered. 

“Of course you do,” Ron said, as if he’d only just remembered who he was talking to. He sniffed and wiped at his nose as he turned his gaze on Hermione. “I was wrong,” he said. 

“You were,” Hermione said. “About Delphi, you were.” And a look of heartache and resignation passed between the two of them that Harry recognized from his own conversation with Ginny the week before. 

“I don’t want to lose either of you,” Ron continued. “I don’t want to walk away. I’ve done it once before, and I swore, Harry, I swore I’d never do it again.” 

“I don’t want that either.” Harry stood, tucking his own hands away into his pockets as he met Ron’s gaze. “But I’ve got to trust you with her if things are going to be the same as they were. She’s the most important thing in my life, Ron.” 

“I know.” Ron nodded and bit the inside of his cheek. 

“You have to know Ron would never—” Hermione began, but Harry held up a hand in her direction, sending her a pleading look simultaneously. She fell silent and pressed her lips into a thin line. After several more uncomfortable seconds spent in silence, Ron looked up, a determined expression on his face. 

“I don’t like her,” he said. Harry bristled, but Hermione spoke before he had the chance. 

“You don’t even know her, Ron.”

“I don’t like the  _ idea _ of her,” Ron clarified. “Every time I think about her I’m reminded of things I’d rather forget, but…” His stopped speaking and frowned as his teeth sank into his lip. 

“But?” Harry asked. 

“Well, I don’t like that I don’t like her.”

“The idea of her,” Hermione corrected. 

“I don’t like that I look at a baby, my best friend’s daughter, and all I can think about are a pair of dead arseholes.” Ron’s brows were knitted together as he continued, and Harry watched in anxiously as he spoke. “I can’t promise I’ll be able to put it all behind me today, Harry… I just can’t, but I can tell you I’m trying, and that I’d sooner Avada myself than do anything to hurt you… or Delphini.” 

Harry’s heart pounded as he stared as his friend. In a rush, he remembered every argument they had ever had, every caustic remark Ron had ever made, but the memories were soon followed by the truly remarkable things the redhead had done. They had been friends for a very long time, and there was a reason for that. Ron was a good person. Harry felt ashamed at how unyielding he had been towards his friend, how obtuse. Harry knew he was not the only person who had lost someone in the war, not the only person still affected by it. He couldn’t regret keeping Delphi safe, but had she ever been in real danger from Ron?

“I’m sorry too,” Harry said, and heard Hermione let out a relieved sigh from her place on the bed. “I should have trusted you more. It was wrong of me to let you find out the way you did. I don’t regret Delphi, and I can’t regret anything that will help to keep her safe, but I shouldn’t have kept you in the dark…” His throat tightened, and he blinked several times before continuing. “You’re like a brother to me, Ron.” 

Hermione sprang up from the bed with a tearful sounding cry and wrapped one arm around each of their necks before pulling both Harry and Ron in close for a tight hug. Harry winced as he felt all three of their heads collide before Hermione loosened her grip. 

“I love you both so much!” Hermione cried, and Harry felt himself blush again as he hid his face in her bushy hair. As they stood there, he felt Ron’s arm come around his own shoulder, squeezing tightly as Harry returned the embrace. 

A knock on the door made the trio jump apart, dropping their arms awkwardly as they blinked back stray tears. 

“Mum sent me to bring you three down. I hope you’re not doing anything inappropriate in there.” George sounded as if he thought that was unlikely. 

“Piss off,” Ron said. “We’ll be down in a minute.” 

“By which point mum will have fed Harry’s kid a whole cake and three sugar cubes. By all means, take your time.” 

Harry laughed as Ron rolled his eyes and Hermione frowned. 

“She’ll give her a stomach ache,” she said. 

Harry smiled, meeting Ron’ gaze as he shrugged, and they both laughed aloud. 

“Come on, we should go down,” Hermione said. 

When they reached the table, Delphi was perched back in the high chair with a fistful of steamed carrots and a face covered in what looked like gravy. Harry watched as Ron took his seat beside her, his expression unreadable as he watched the baby coat herself in food. Delphi seemed to eye him speculatively in return before losing interest and reaching for the half eaten roll on the table in front of her instead. 

“Where has Ginny gone this evening,” asked Fleur, her thick French accent coming from the other side of the table before she winced as Bill shifted forward in his seat. Harry had a sneaking suspicion the man had just trod on his pregnant wife’s foot. 

“She’s accepted an invitation to eat with her Aunt Muriel this evening,” Arthur said, but Harry caught the quick flicker of his eyes upwards and felt the same crushing guilt which had been assailing him for the past week. Perhaps he ought to seek Ginny out, to talk with her to make sure she—

A warm hand on his forearm drew his gaze and he followed it back to its source. Hermione was giving him a meaningful look, and he nodded in response.  _ This isn’t your fault _ , her expression seemed to say, and Harry was very grateful for her support. 

“Tell me, Harry,” Andromeda called, “are you nervous for tomorrow?” 

“Tomorrow? Blimey, Harry, have you decided to interview?” Ron sounded surprised, but pleased, and Harry nodded his confirmation. 

“I have,” he said. “I’ve got to be there at ten tomorrow morning.” 

“I’ll see you there,” Ron said, a broad smile on his face. “Mine’s at nine. Then the physical portion at one.” 

“And I’m sure you’ll do splendidly,” Molly beamed. She was the picture of a proud mother as she flicked her wand casually at the table, sending several slices of roast floating onto Ron and Harry’s plates. “But not if you don’t eat your dinner.” 

Ron didn’t need any further encouragement. As always, he dug into his meal with gusto. Harry, too, began to load his fork, anticipating the taste of what he knew would be an exceptional meal. Just as he was about to take the first bite, he felt the press of a leg against his beneath the table. He paused, glancing inquiringly at Hermione, who gave him a brilliant smile. 

“Eat up, Future Auror Potter” she said, and then turned back to her own plate. Harry felt something warm burning in his chest and did as he was told. 

oOoOoOoOoOo

King’s Cross Station, London

1 September 1998

The railway station was crowded that morning; it always seemed to be on the first of September. Harry wondered idly how much of the foot traffic across the platforms could be attributed to Muggles, and how much of it was due to the start of term at Hogwarts. If he had ever seen the place outside of the days the Hogwarts Express arrived, he might have been able to guess; but the Dursley’s had never exactly taken him along on train rides when they could help it... and when they could help it had turned out to be always. 

“Come on, Harry, you’re going to make me late dawdling like that.” 

He looked up at the sound of Hermione’s voice. She sounded anxious as her eyes searched for the entrance to platform nine and three-quarters. He saw the moment her gaze landed on the large brick wall which separated platforms nine and ten. The tension in her shoulders seemed to ease as one corner of her mouth lifted into a half smile. 

“There it is,” she said, “Come on.” She grabbed his hand to pull him after her as she approached the entrance. She had forgone the trolley she had pushed every other year in favor of shrinking her trunk and other possessions and stuffing them in the little beaded bag she never let stray far from her person. The only thing which had been allowed to remain a normal size was the cage Harry carried for her. Inside, a tawny owl was glaring out at the hustle and bustle of the platform, hooting indignantly every few steps. 

“Hush, Caliban,” Hermione ordered the owl just as they reached the barrier between nine and ten. The owl quieted, and Harry watched the thing in surprise. The creature had been incredibly raucous in Eyelop’s Owl Emporium when Harry had picked him out after his interview the day before. Still, remembering Hermione’s attachment to Crookshanks (who Hermione had managed to confund her parents into keeping with them in Australia) had convinced him that she would adore the creature. He had, apparently, been right. 

Harry looked back at the entrance to the platform, watching as a portly wizard in short shorts and a tuxedo shirt walked straight into the brick wall. He disappeared through it just as a harried looking father with four small children walked in front of him and toward the train waiting at platform ten. Harry found himself missing Delphi acutely, and had to remind himself that Andromeda was a more than capable caretaker for her.

“Excuse me?” A small voice spoke up from Harry’s left, and he looked down to the source. A short girl with straight blonde hair and brown eyes was staring up at them. In her hands, she clutched a piece of parchment and what looked like a number two pencil. 

“Yes?” Harry asked. 

“Can I have your autograph?” 

His eyebrows shot up to near his hairline, and he bit his lip briefly before giving one short nod. 

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Sure.” 

The little girl wrinkled her nose as Harry reached for her parchment, and took a step back. 

“Not you,” she clarified. “ _ Her _ .” 

Harry followed the line of the pencil the girl had extended all the way to Hermione, who stood looking shocked and perhaps a bit pleased. 

“Me?” she asked, the disbelief evident in her voice. 

“Oh, please!” The girl begged, taking two quick steps toward Hermione and holding out her crumpled parchment and pencil. “I think you’re brilliant!” 

Harry watched in amused silence as Hermione seemed to struggle with what to do, looking up at him with wide eyes and then down at the girl who stared hopefully up at her. 

“Okay,” she said at last. She took the necessary equipment from the child and motioned for Harry to come closer before turning him around and pushing his shoulder’s down until his back became a flat surface upon which she could write. 

“Ruth!” Harry glanced awkwardly over his shoulder at the sound of a woman’s panicked voice. 

“I’m over here, mum!” The blonde girl stood on her toes, reaching a hand in the air and waving at a brunette woman with stick straight hair and an even smaller girl beside her. “I found Hermione Granger!” 

“I don’t give a flying switch if you’ve found Merlin himself, you don’t wander off in the middle of Muggle—” She stopped in her tracks as she grew near enough to recognize the duo standing beside her daughter. “Circe’s teat. You  _ are _ Hermione Granger.” 

“Hello,” Hermione said, forcing a smile as she finished putting her signature to the blank piece of parchment and handed it back to the girl along with her pencil. Harry turned, standing up straight once more as he took a step closer to Hermione. 

“And Harry Potter,” the woman said. “Gorgon’s hair, I am that surprised. It is a pleasure to meet the both of you.” 

“I got her autograph!” Ruth told her mother excitedly as the older woman extended her hand and shook first Harry’s and then Hermione’s vigorously. 

“I am so sorry to have disturbed you,” the mother apologized. “It’s only, Ruth’s been obsessing over you since she read your profile in the Prophet after the battle. She think’s you’re a proper hero. We all do. I’m a Muggleborn too, you see.” 

“Oh, thank you,” Hermione said, obviously shocked. She took Harry’s free hand in her own once more, squeezing it tightly. He held her grasp firmly in response, giving it a short squeeze before addressing the family. 

“She is,” he said. “Saved my skin more than once.” 

“Wow,” said Ruth, and she would have continued if her mother hadn’t rested a hand on her shoulder. 

“Come along,” she said, “we’ve taken up enough of their time. You’re going to miss the train if we don’t hurry.” 

“But Mum, it’s  _ Hermione Granger _ !” 

“I’ll probably see you on the train later,” Hermione said, offering the young girl a smile. “And I’ll watch for you during the Sorting.” 

“Cool!” Ruth beamed, looking pleased beyond reason and waving enthusiastically as her mother led her way. Harry watched them disappear through the barrier before turning to Hermione with a grin, her hand still warm in his. 

“Blimey, Hermione. You’re more famous than I am now. I always wondered when the rest of the world would catch on that I’m only following your lead.” 

“Oh hush,” she said, and then dragged him by his hand, through the wall and onto platform nine and three-quarters. He was laughing when the scarlet steam engine came into view, and as he considered the train where it sat beneath a cloud of smoke, the amusement he had been feeling seemed to flee from him. The cheery cars—which had once been such a joy to him—looked less like the magical means of escape from his life with the Dursley’s, and more like the thing that would take his closest friend far away from him. He frowned as he allowed himself to be led toward the Hogwarts Express, trying to contain the disappointment he knew he should not be feeling. 

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked. She dropped his hand as she turned to face him, and he felt the loss. 

“Nothing.” 

“Liar.” 

“Alright,” Harry said. “Something stupid.” 

“I doubt that.” Hermione had an expression on her face that he remembered from their school years together, when she had faced a problem she did not know how to solve but was determined to overcome. 

“I’m going to miss you, that’s all,” Harry said, forcing a smile despite the sinking feeling in his gut. 

“That’s not so very stupid.” 

“Yeah well, it’s a bit daft that I don’t know how I’m going to manage without you. Delphi’s going to miss you too.” 

She punched his shoulder before he knew she was moving, her small fist barely making a solid impact before withdrawing. “Dammit, Harry, are you trying to make me cry?” 

He laughed, shaking his head as she took a step towards him and wrapped her arms around his chest, just beneath his arms. She pressed her cheek to his collarbone and he set Caliban’s cage down before wrapping his own arms around her in return. God, he really was going to miss her. He had no idea how it had happened, this dependence on her, but he wasn’t sure how he was going to get along without her there. She had been with him every step of the way this last month… Hell, she’d been with him long before that. 

His mind flashed back to the tent, to the cold and damp and the hunger; to the Horcrux freezing against his chest as she had cried in the night and he had comforted her with his embrace. Even then, it had been she who had been there for him, choosing him at great personal cost and leading him through minefields he would never have been able to avoid on his own. When was the last time he had been without her for any serious length of time? He was ill equipped to handle this world without her, to handle  _ fatherhood _ without her. 

“You’ll be brilliant _.”  _ She whispered the words against his shoulder and pulled him more tightly to her. He could feel the swell of her breasts against him for more than a moment before she released him, her eyes filled with unshed, glistening tears. “I know you will be. Delphi is lucky to have you, and I’m just an owl away.” 

“Too bloody far,” Harry said, forcing a smile despite the soul deep ache that was threatening to overtake him. 

“Well, you’ll just have to come and visit then, won’t you?” Hermione said, wiping at her nose with the back of her hand before bending down to lift her owl’s cage. “And you had better bring my goddaughter to Hogsmeade on free weekends, or I won’t ever forgive you.” 

“Noted,” Harry forced a grin and stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep himself from pulling her in for another hug. 

The Hogwarts Express gave one sharp whistle, signaling its last call for boarding, and Harry glared at the thing. 

“That’s me off then,” Hermione said, and reached out to place her hand on Harry’s upper arm, squeezing gently as she met his gaze once more. “I’ll see you soon, Harry.” 

“Yeah, see you soon,” he echoed. 

She released him, turning without another word and making her way onto the train. She didn’t pause or look back, though Harry wished she would. When she was out of sight, he let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. 

“Harry!” he looked up at the sound of her voice, his heart racing as he spotted her leaning out of a window several cars down. Her hair was frizzing in the humid air, and he began to jog toward her just as the train started to move on the tracks. 

“I left Delphi’s laundry in the washing machine!” she called. “Don’t forget to change it over!” 

“I won’t!” He laughed, his heart still beating wildly as he continued to jog after her, his pace increasing in time with the train. 

“And Harry?” She called, barely audible over the din of the engine and another shrill whistle. Her hair was whipping over her face now in wild, riotous tangles. 

“What?”

“I’ll miss you too!”

He trailed after them until he hit the end of the platform and she disappeared back through the window. He closed his eyes, picturing her sitting on the bench of the train car, her cheeks flushed and her hair a nest of curling locks. She’d be smiling at whoever was sitting across from her, maybe Neville, who Harry knew had chosen to repeat his seventh year as well. Harry felt a clenching in his gut at the thought of  _ Neville _ receiving her smiles, of  _ Neville _ getting to talk to her and watch as she chewed on the end of her quill during class. He recognized the feeling as jealousy and tried his best to push it down, back to the dark corner of him from which it had escaped. 

He had no business being jealous. Hermione was his friend—his good friend—nothing more. She could smile at whomever she pleased, and he wouldn’t have a right to say a damn thing. 

He bit his lip as the last train car disappeared from view and a silver otter burst onto the platform beside him. His eyes widened, and he felt himself smile despite the black mood which was threatening to descend upon him. 

“Give Delphi a kiss for me,” it said in Hermione’s voice. “Tell her My loves her.” 

He smiled as the otter disappeared and the sound of adults Disapparating around him began to fill the platform. He thought for a moment about sending his own stag patronus after the train before dismissing the thought and joining the other witches and wizards as they returned to their homes, all a bit quieter than they had been when they had arrived. 


	14. Chapter 14

_ 5 September 1998 _

_ Dear Harry, _

_ Hogwarts is boring without you and Ron trying to get me killed. I’ve had so much time to revise that I think I might actually be overdoing it. I know, I know, shocking, isn’t it? But even I can admit that revision isn’t everything, and that sometimes it's necessary to—and I am quoting Professor McGonagall here—“let one’s hair down.” I know you probably already remember, but my birthday is coming up. I was hoping our first liberty weekend would coincide, but it hasn’t. So, in lieu of actually  _ seeing _ you and Delphi, I demand copious amounts of photographs that I can plaster above my bunk. I miss seeing her, you know. I wasn’t anticipating how painful it would be to be a away from her. Do all god parents feel this way, you think? And I miss seeing you, of course.  _

_ Classes are just as they ever were. Professor Slughorn has retired, and we have a new Potions teacher. Her name is Lucinda Burke, and she doesn’t seem a bad sort. There’s not as much looming and point taking as there was with Snape as Potion’s Master. Is it odd that I almost miss not being able to make a comment without being called a know-it-all? There’s a new Transfiguration teacher as well. You’ve met her actually, it’s Mrs Catermole from the Ministry. Professor Catermole, I suppose. She’s brilliant, actually. Other posts have been filled as well, though I haven’t had as much chance to get to know the other teachers.  _

_ And you’ll never guess where little Ruth ended up in the sorting. She’s a Slytherin! Can you believe it? I was shocked. Imagine, a  _ slytherin _ , admiring me. She’s a sweetheart, though. When she sees me doing rounds in the evening she blushes and follows me for five minutes or so, telling me all about what she’s learning. And because I know you’ll want to know, yes, Malfoy did show up on the first day of term. He’s behaving himself so far, but I’ll continue to keep an eye on him.  _

_ Hagrid sends his regards and this horrid box of rock cakes. I’m sorry, but he insisted I send them.  _

_ Hoping all is well and missing you terribly,  _

_ Hermione _

  
  


_ 9 September 1998 _

_ Dear Hermione,  _

_ We miss you too. I forgot the laundry in the wash after all, and it was starting to mold by the time I found it. Had to chuck the lot. What’s the name of that store you got Delphi’s clothes at?  _

_ I love your updates on Hogwarts. It’s weird seeing it from the other side like this. Last year the separation didn’t seem real because we had no idea what was going on in the school, but now, with your letters, it’s impossible to not remember I’m done with Hogwarts. It makes me feel old, honestly.  _

_ Training is going well. I’m in the same unit as Ron. Things were awkward at first, I’ll admit, but they seem to have gone back to normal. I’m constantly getting my arse handed to me in training by the head auror, Robards. He’s bloody good at what he does, and I’m glad to be learning from him. Still, it pricks a man’s ego to be  _ stunned _ so often.  _

_ Delphi has started walking, can you believe it! She’s absolutely pants at it, but she looks adorable, and my arms are less tired from having to lug her everywhere she wants to go. She asks after you at bedtime still. I’ve had to start reading her Shakespeare, because it’s apparently a part of her bedtime routine now. Thanks for that.  _

_ Thanks for the update on Malfoy as well, but don’t feel that you have to keep an eye on him. I’d rather hear more about you anyway.  _

_ Sick of iambic pentameter (and missing you), _

_ Harry _

  
  


_ 12 September 1998 _

_ Harry,  _

_ Your complaints have fallen on deaf ears. I am nothing but proud of having introduced culture into Delphi’s evenings. God knows she’ll learn more from the bard than from whichever Quidditch publication you’re subscribed to.  _

_ The store is called “Baby Mine”, which I realize is a somewhat trite name, but the clothes range from charming to sensible, and you should be able to replace any items that have been ruined.  _

_ Neville says hello. Ginny gave a sort of nod, which is, I think, some sort of acknowledgment that you exist. She seems to still be upset, which I do understand. There are still moments I feel unbearably sad over what happened between Ron and I… but I think I miss the companionship, the sense of ‘us’, more than I miss actually being with Ron. Does that make me awful?  _

_ Judging your laundry negligence (and still missing you both),  _

_ Hermione.  _

  
  


_ 19 September 1998 _

_ Hermione,  _

_ Happy Birthday! I’ve chosen to ignore your judgements and instead enclosed your presents as planned. I hope they brighten your day a bit.  _

_ And you’re definitely not awful. _

_ Missing you, as ever, _

_ Harry _

_ PS- Delphi asked me for photos of you as well. Can you believe I haven’t got more than a couple?  _

  
  


Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

19 September 1998

When Hermione woke up on Saturday morning, it was to the sight of a large tawny owl perched atop her bedside table. He was watching her—apparently for signs of movement—and when she stirred at last he gave a low hoot before launching himself into the air. 

“Good morning to you too,” she said to the owl, reaching into her nightstand drawer for a handful of owl treats and holding them aloft for Caliban. Spotting the treasure, the tawny owl circled the room once before landing beside her and beginning to eat the treats out of her cupped hand. “What have you brought me today?” Hermione asked. She bit her lip when she spotted the pile of presents at the foot of her bed, smiling when she recognized the messy scrawl atop the topmost package. 

She reached for the parcel, tearing off the brown paper wrapping to reveal a white box that had been sealed with Spello-tape. She found her wand and severed the adhesive before lifting the lid off of the box. She opened the letter first, unrolling the scroll and devouring the short note until she had reached the end. Her gaze lingered on Harry’s signature there before she blushed and set the parchment aside, reaching for the first item beneath it. 

What she at first thought might be a leather-bound day planner turned out to be a photo album with several moving pictures already inserted into the transparent sleeves. The first was of Delphi, dressed in a simple yellow dress and backlit by the setting sun. She was laughing at something behind the camera, her black curls haloed by light as they brushed against the tops of her cheeks. Hermione smiled broadly at the photograph, and her heart twinged. Merlin, she missed the girl. How was it possible that she had grown to love the child so much in such a short amount of time? 

She turned the page, her gaze landing on a photograph of Delphi and Harry together. She let her finger trace over the picture for a moment before studying it more closely. Harry sat on a green lawn, reclining backward as Delphi tried to climb over him, laughing and grasping for his glasses. She wondered for a moment who Harry had gotten to take these photos for him; they were beautiful, and she thought he must have hired a professional Wizarding photographer. 

There were several more photographs of Delphi and of Harry with her, each one more lovely than the last, and when Hermione reached the final photograph, she bit her lip again. This one was another solo shot, but this time of Harry. He stood in front of Grimmauld place, his thumbs tucked into his pockets for only a moment before he reached up to run a hand through his hair. He was dressed in the same blue jumper and denim jeans he had worn in his photo’s with Delphi, but somehow, without her round cheeks and sunny expression to soften him, he looked more rugged—older. 

Hermione blushed again, biting the inside of her cheek as she watched Harry smile and rub a hand over his bearded jaw. Christ, he didn’t have a right to look so bloody attractive, not when she knew it wasn’t meant for her. She shut the album, deciding that dwelling on her best friend’s good looks any longer was a decidedly awful idea. Instead, she reached for the second item in the parcel. It was significantly lighter than the album, which surprised Hermione. By rights, the sizable leather satchel should have been several times heavier than the photo book that had come with it. Hermione spotted a note stuck to the outside of the satchel. 

“ _ Finite _ ,” Hermione said, cancelling the sticking charm wandlessly and inspecting Harry’s writing. 

_ Weightless and ever extending. Took me for-bloody-ever to figure out how to Mary Poppins the thing, but I know you like to carry more than this bag would fit otherwise. Happy birthday! _

She smiled, tucking the note into one of the two front pockets on the bag and admiring the craftsmanship. It was an expensive satchel, she was fairly sure. She had certainly never owned a school bag so fine (her own was canvas and was continually splitting at the seams), and she had to admit that as far as gifts went, this was perhaps the nicest any of her friends had ever given her. She smiled despite herself as she set the bag aside with the photo album. She was grinning like a fool by the time she reached for her other presents. 

Her gift from Molly Weasley consisted of baked goods and a hand-knit scarf in a lovely shade of dusky purple. Hagrid had sent a hand-whittled comb and a serving of rock cakes. Several classmates, including Ginny, Neville, and Luna, had sent sweets. Hermione noted, as she set aside her last box of Honeydukes chocolates, that Ron had not bothered to send a gift this year. She tried hard not to feel bitter about this as she rose from her bed, drawing up the covers with a flick of her wand and crossing to the wardrobe where her clothes were stored. Ron had every right not to send her a gift this year. She was, after all, his ex girlfriend now. Yes, they had shared seven years of friendship in addition to the months they had spent snogging, but ending their romantic relationship was bound to take a toll. 

“Morning.” Hermione turned at the sound of a sleepy voice. She spotted Ginny sitting upright in her bed and yawning. “Happy birthday, Hermione.” 

“Thanks.” Hermione smiled at the younger girl before glancing at the other four poster beds in the room to see if she had woken anyone else. Her dormitory this year was shared with the other seventh year Gryffindor girls. Ginny slept in the bed beside Hermione’s, and beyond her, three other girls made their home. Hermione didn’t know any of them very well. They had all been a year behind her up until now. Parvati Patil, the only other Gryffindor girl in her own year, had not returned, and Hermione did not blame her. Hogwarts was, after all, the place where she had seen her best friend brutally murdered by Fenrir Greyback. Hermione swallowed, pushing thoughts of the battle—of Lavender Brown stirring feebly on the ground—out of her mind. 

“Do you have any plans today?” Ginny asked, distracting Hermione from her thoughts. 

“Just the library.” Hermione pulled a robe on over her casual clothes and moved back to her bed. She lifted the satchel Harry had sent, slinging it over her shoulder and testing its weight as she bounced on her toes. 

“That’s nice,” Ginny commented. 

“Thank you. And thank you for the chocolates. You know I love them.” 

Ginny nodded and yawned, laying back in her bed and covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Off to the library then, oh ancient one.” 

Hermione made a face. “Nineteen is hardly ancient,” she said, and Ginny grinned in response. Rolling her eyes, Hermione waved at the younger girl before leaving the room and taking the stairs down toward the common room.

As she made her way through the castle, Hermione studiously avoided looking up in several spots. It was odd, being back in this place. She had known when she made the decision to return to Hogwarts, that it would be different, but she had not expected the melancholy which often assailed her within its walls. The feeling was not helped by the plethora of new paintings and statuary which had replaced pieces damaged beyond repair in the battle the year before, and so Hermione walked with her eyes downcast much of the time. 

She missed her friends more than she had expected. With Harry and Ron gone, and the rest of the students in her year a year or more younger than she, she often felt alone. She buried herself in schoolwork to combat the feeling, often spending whole nights hidden away in the library, but even revising could not distract her from the creeping emptiness of her days here. 

Thank god for Luna and Neville and Ginny, the three members of the DA who—while not replacements for Harry or Ron—had always been exceedingly loyal and inclusive. She did not think she would have lasted the first week in the castle without the three of them to turn to when her memories began to overwhelm her. Of course, it was the same for them. When they had approached the castle after arriving by thestral drawn carriage, Hermione had watched Neville freeze near the spot he had beheaded Nagini. It had taken nearly a full minute of coaxing before she and Luna had managed to convince him that it would be safe for him to go inside the castle. The cost of the war they had fought was still being paid, it seemed. 

When at last she reached the library, Hermione found her usual table. She settled into it, dropping her bag on the surface and summoning several books from the nearby shelves. It was pleasant to be able to research solely for her schoolwork; it felt different than the hours she had spent poring over books during their year on the run — less urgent, less draining.

By the time Hermione had finished taking notes and had outlined the essay due in Charms the next week, it was lunch time. She packed up her things, putting Harry’s ever-extending charm to the test as she loaded book after book into her new satchel. When at last she had finished, she lifted it, smiling as the bag swung nearly weightless in her hand, not a bulge in sight despite the improbable amount of literature she had filled it with. 

The Great Hall was nearly at capacity by the time Hermione took her seat at the Gryffindor table. She sat beside one of her roommates, Cassandra Worth, a blue eyed girl with straight brown hair and generous curves. To Cassandra’s right sat her two best friends, Diana Fraser and Eloise Macron, the other girls in Hermione’s dormitory. Both were dark skinned with curls more riotous than Hermione’s, but there the resemblance stopped. Where one girl was short, the other was tall. Where one was thin, the other was thick. They were a study in opposites in all but coloring. 

“Happy Birthday, Hermione!” Neville sank onto the bench to Hermione’s left, reaching for a ham sandwich as he set out a parchment half covered with his own untidy scrawl. “You finished this yet?” 

“Charms?” Hermione asked, peering down at the page and pouring herself a glass of water. 

“Magical Creatures.” Neville took a bite of his food, waiting for her reply. 

“Last week.” 

He rolled his eyes, grinning with his mouth full before he finished chewing and swallowed the food down. 

“You would,” he teased. “Making the rest of us look like slackers. Does it keep you up at night?” 

“Never,” Hermione answered dryly. “But I’ll make you a deal. I’ll help you with Magical Creatures if you give me a hand transplanting for Herbology next week. The Snapping Scaviosa nearly took my finger off yesterday.”

Neville nodded, his expression brightening. 

“You’ve only got to know how to handle them. I can show you later today if you like.” 

“Please.” 

Behind them, someone cleared their throat. Hermione looked up in time to see Ginny waggling her eyebrows suggestively. She blushed, embarrassed by the insinuation. She’d never thought of Neville as more than a good a friend, and something inside of her protested at being mistaken for more. 

“Finally up, are we?” Hermione asked, scooting to make room for Ginny between herself and Neville. 

“It’s Saturday, Hermione. Everyone but you sleeps in on Saturday.” 

“Not me,” said Neville. “I go down to the greenhouse. I’ve got several plants at very delicate stages.” 

“Merlin, Neville, when did you get to be such a swot?” Ginny nudged him playfully in the shoulder before reaching for a glass of pumpkin juice and a plate with a dozen pieces of freshly buttered toast. 

Hermione spotted a faint pink tinge over Neville’s cheeks before he turned his face down to study his half written essay. 

The three of them ate in companionable silence for the rest of the meal. Neville scribbled now and then at his parchment while Ginny flipped through a copy of Quidditch Weekly. As for Hermione, she contented herself with a book—a biography of Deliverance Dane that she had found in the Library and picked up for recreational reading. The rest of the day was spent out on the grounds. Ginny joined the Quidditch team for practice. She had been made captain that year and was, as far as Hermione could tell, dedicating herself fully to the team’s performance. Hermione, Neville, and Luna all sat by the lake, finishing homework and chatting. It wasn’t until after dinner that Hermione and Neville made it back to the Gryffindor common room. 

“I’m always surprised by how different it feels,” said Neville, as they settled themselves onto a sofa by the fire, ignoring the pair of first year girls giggling nearby as they stirred a cauldron clockwise. “I mean, I know logically that nothing has changed; I still sleep in the same four poster, the furniture is all still in the same place… but it feels different.”

Hermione knew what he meant. It was the same feeling which often plagued her throughout her school days. 

“It’s hard to go back… after everything.” She let the words hang in the air as Neville nodded. She remembered, as she stared into the flickering flames, the countless times she had sat in this same spot, flanked on either side by Harry and Ron. She had been happy then. And it wasn’t that she was miserable now, but how did one go back when one had experienced so much? How did a person overlook the fact that the world had moved on around them, and they were still stuck? She’d lived for months on end in fear for her life. She’d fought Death Eaters double her age and won. She’d killed a piece of Voldemort’s soul. She’d become a godmother, broken up with her childhood crush, and discovered an unsettling and unreturned regard for her best friend in the whole world. 

And yet, here, within the walls of the castle, she was bound to play at still being the bookish prefect who had spent years learning her craft, because if she allowed herself to be the woman who had gone through so much… Well, she didn’t think she would be able to content herself with classrooms and essays any longer, and she desperately needed to be able to content herself.

“It is.” Neville spoke with a conviction that surprised Hermione. “Sitting in class like a first year after cutting the head off of You-Know-Who’s pet snake, seems a bit tame.” 

Hermione laughed. “Yes, well, can’t be a hero every day. I think that’s strictly a once a week thing, actually.” 

“That so? Maybe I’ll have to create a bit of danger myself then.” Neville’s eyes were glittering, and Hermione watched him, amused. 

“You? Create trouble? Please. Is this the same boy I had to body-bind because he was so unwilling to bend rules in first year?” 

Neville met her gaze, one brow raised as he smirked. “I thought we established we’re grown ups now, Hermione? I’m a man, not a boy.” And then he flushed, looking over his shoulder for a split second before shaking his head and furrowing his brow.

“What is it?” Hermione asked, glancing behind her into the common room just as Neville had done. Nothing seemed amiss. 

“Nothing,” he said. “Just…” He stopped and sighed, looking hesitant before something seemed to resolve itself and he looked up to meet her gaze. 

“Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something. I wasn’t going to bring it up before because… well, it would have been inappropriate, wouldn’t it have?” 

Hermione lifted her brows in confusion. 

“I know I’m not like Ron or Harry. I haven’t got half the charm they do, and I know it. I’m awkward, and clumsy, and honestly I’m absolutely pants at Quidditch. But I can be clever when I need to be, I think, which should count for something.”

“Neville, what are you trying to say?” 

He blushed bright red at her question, and Hermione tilted her head to the side in confusion. 

“Just that. Well,” said Neville, “Shit.” The epithet was spoken with widening, surprised eyes trained over Hermione’s shoulder. She whipped her head around to face whatever stood behind her, her wand in her hand within a heartbeat. 

“Woah! Calm down, Hermione, it’s only me.” Ginny stood with her hands raised up and palms open toward her friend. Hermione lowered her wand instantly. 

“Sorry!” she said. “Reflex.” 

Ginny nodded and waved off the apology. 

“I was only coming to see if either of you wanted a game of Exploding Snaps.” She ran a hand through her hair, the silken red strands falling over her shoulder. Hermione turned in time to see Neville biting his lip and looking away. 

“Not me,” Hermione answered. “Neville, would you—” She stopped speaking when Neville started shaking his head furiously. 

“Sorry,” he said, “not feeling much like playing tonight. Think I’ll head up to bed, actually.” He stood, stuffing his hands in his pockets before remembering his bag beside the sofa. He reached down to grab it with a wince.

“Later,” he said once he had it in hand, and turned his back on the both of them to head toward the stairs leading up to the dormitories. 

“What’s eating him?” Ginny asked once he was out of earshot. She looked as confused as Hermione felt. 

“Haven’t the foggiest.” Hermione watched Neville for any sort of hint as he retreated, only turning back to face Ginny when he had set foot on the first step. 

That was when it happened. 

The common room exploded with a deafening bang. Chairs and tables were swept off of their legs as shrapnel ripped through the air on all sides, and Hermione was knocked backward. The last thing she saw before her head hit the mantle above the fireplace and she lost consciousness, was her wand flying out of her hand and arching through the air. 

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

The Ministry of Magic

19 September 1998

There were bruises on his arse and on his ego, neither of which were comfortable. As Harry picked himself up off of the floor for the third time, Robards approached him, hand outstretched. He took it, letting the Head Auror help him to his feet and wincing as his weight shifted onto his sore knee. 

“Not bad that time, Potter,” the older man said, his brown, silver-shot hair hanging over one eye. “Your offense is where it needs to be, you’ve just got to keep practicing those shielding charms.” 

“Thanks,” Harry said, rubbing his backside and wincing again. “Feels a lot like what I need to be working on is cushioning charms, though.” 

Robards let out a raspy laugh, clapping a hand over Harry’s shoulder and guiding him toward the practice room door. 

“You can’t expect to be to level so soon, lad,” the older man assured him. “Hogwarts gives you the basics, but we train you up the rest of the way. Besides, you’ve seen the other recruits getting their arses handed to them same as you.” 

It was true, Harry thought, all ten of the new recruits to the auror department were struggling with the advanced spell-work required for the war-level shields they had to learn. He and Ron were, perhaps, the most advanced of the lot. Still, they had not been able to manage to hold their shields for longer than a few seconds, less if they were under a barrage of blasting curses and slicing hexes. It was beginning to shake Harry’s confidence that he even belonged in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Perhaps he would have been better suited to a quiet life in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, where the most strenuous thing he would be called upon to do would be writing up reports on cauldron bottoms. 

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, dismissing his self doubt as they made their way through the door and into the hallway beyond. 

“Harry, there you are!” Ron’s voice echoed in the corridor, and Harry turned to face him. The redhead was still dressed in his own trainee robes, the bright red fabric clashing with his hair and casting a ruddy pink glow all over his face. 

“Weasley.” Robards nodded to Ron. 

“Evening, sir,” said Ron, his expression sobering just slightly when he realized who Harry had been sparring with. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.” 

“Nonsense. I was just about to tell Potter here to stop pestering me and go home.” 

“Sorry, sir,” said Harry reflexively, and Robards laughed. 

“Get out of here, the both of you,” he said before disappearing down the hallway and into his office. 

“Yes, sir.” Both Harry and Ron spoke just as the Head Auror’s office door closed behind him. 

“Bloody hell, I’m all pins and needles when he’s around. Bleeding embarrassing,” said Ron, shaking his shoulders as if to brush off the feeling. “You off now, or do you have time for a pint?”

Harry thought for a moment about taking Ron up on the offer before shaking his head. “Can’t. Andromeda’s waiting.” 

“Right.” Ron picked a piece of non-existent lint from his robes before forcing a smile and looking back up at Harry. “Tell her hello for me.” 

Harry noticed that Ron did not mention Delphi, and an overprotective part of him was irritated by the omission. He pushed down the feeling, returning Ron’s stiff smile and nodding once. 

“Give my best to your mum, when you see her.” 

“Course. That reminds me, though, I was given strict instructions to remind you that supper is at six tomorrow. She said, ‘The Ministry may be sucking up your Saturdays, but I know for a fact your Sundays are still free.’ Or something like that.” 

Harry smiled genuinely now and nodded. “We’ll be there.” 

“Great,” said Ron. “Later, Harry.” 

It took him longer than he expected to reach the atrium. His scarlet robes had been drenched in sweat, and so he had taken the time to change and to shower in the locker room before heading to the elevator. In his own, sensible black robes, Harry felt less conspicuous as he made his way through the room. Working in a place as public as the Ministry of Magic had been an adjustment. The incident in Diagon Alley with the reporters at the ice-cream shop had not been the last of its kind. Thankfully, Kingsley had banned reporters from the main floor of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, at least for the time being. Still, this did not stop them from congregating inside of the atrium near the newly constructed Fountain of Magical Brethren. 

Harry kept his eyes down as he made his way toward the opposite end of the large room and to the designated Apparition point. He had nearly made it when a high, familiar voice echoed across the room. 

“Harry! Harry Potter!” He winced as he turned reflexively and recognized the woman who had spoken. 

“Skeeter,” he said, his voice instantly impatient. “What do you want?” 

The reporter flashed a wide grin, her almost fluorescent white teeth glinting as her bleach blonde curls bobbed. “Only to say hello, and perhaps to ask a few questions.” 

“I haven’t got time,” said Harry shortly. 

“Of course.” Skeeter smiled. “You’ll be on your way to pick up your little cousin, won’t you?” 

Harry’s gaze narrowed as he let his piercing green eyes bore into the woman’s blue ones. 

“My daughter,” he corrected. 

“Yes, you adopted her, didn’t you? How was that? Do you feel that dealing with the Ministry has been made easier by your status as the Boy Who Lived Again? Would you say the treatment you receive is preferential?” 

“I’m not playing your games today, Rita.” Harry scowled. 

“Oh, come on, Harry!” Rita wheedled, her perfume cloying as she took a step closer to him. “I’m only interested in your experience as a new father. Do you think it’s appropriate that a young, single man such as yourself has so much control over such a young child? Do you feel you’re an appropriate guardian for the orphan of a Muggle—”

“Good-bye, Ms Skeeter,” said Harry through gritted teeth, cutting off her inquiry and turning abruptly to make his way toward the apparition point.

“How curious, that the daughter of your Muggle cousin should prove to be a witch,” called Skeeter, just as Harry turned on the spot and Disapparated from view. The journey was as quick and as nauseating as ever, but Harry was more practiced now, and so he continued his stride as he appeared outside of Andromeda’s home.

How  _ dare _ she? Rita had ever been a source of irritation to him, a nuisance he had been unable to shake completely, but now the filth she was spewing was getting to be beyond the fucking pale. The audacity of suggesting that there was anything inappropriate about his parenting Delphi. He should have hexed her on the spot. 

“Da!” 

Harry looked up at the sound of a sweet voice calling to him. A smile split his face as his gaze landed on Delphi. She was sitting in a patch of grass, surrounded by dandelion seeds which swirled in the air around her, several of them already caught in her glossy curls. 

“Hello, Harry,” said Andromeda from her seat on the porch behind Delphi. She lowered her wand and the breeze which had carried the dandelion seeds around the baby dissipated. 

“Evening, Andromeda. How was my girl today?” He reached for Delphi as she stood with a little effort and raised her arms toward him, an excited smile on her face as she began to babble incoherently. 

“Angelic as ever,” the older woman on the porch said as she stood, shifting the baby on her lap to her hip instead. “Not that I can say the same for Teddy, here.” 

“Is he still teething, then?” asked Harry. Andromeda nodded, coming down the front steps to stand in front of him. 

“And he’s incredibly unhappy about it. Not that I can blame him. His gums are all swollen and painful looking.” 

Harry winced sympathetically before saying “Ouch” as Delphi grabbed hold of his ear and tugged. 

“Da!” 

“Have you all had dinner yet?” Harry asked, lowering his daughter’s hand as he spoke and then following it with several peppered kisses across her cheek. 

Andromeda shook her head, checking an antique looking gold wristwatch she wore daily. “I was going to start it in another ten minutes if you were held late. You’re both welcome to stay, of course.” 

Harry laughed. “I was going to invite you and Teddy,” he said. “I tried the recipe you gave me last week, and it didn’t turn out half bad.” 

The older woman looked pleased at the news, adjusting the baby at her hip as he began to gum at her robes. Harry watched as the tuft of hair on Teddy’s head morphed from blonde to bright blue and he began to cry, apparently distressed at having been foiled in his attempt to devour his grandmother’s clothes. 

Andromeda rolled her eyes upward before moving the baby to rest his head on her shoulder, patting his back firmly as she consoled him. “He’s as clingy as his mother ever was, the poor love,” she said. 

Another tug, this time at Harry’s hair, had him looking back down at Delphi, who placed a hand on his cheek when he met her gaze, and smiled. “Da,” she said again. Harry grinned in return, reaching up to tap her nose as he responded. 

“Delphi.” 

“Teeka.” The girl demanded, and Harry laughed. 

“What is she saying?” Andromeda asked, curious. “She’s been repeating that word all day, and I haven’t been able to figure it out.” 

The enthusiastic rendition of  _ Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star _ , which Harry burst into was her answer, and as Delphi clapped her hands and smiled, Andromeda watched in amused silence, turning a curious Teddy around to watch as his godfather sang. When the song was over, Teddy’s hair had shifted back to its normal, sandy blond. 

When he was done, Andromeda sighed, still smiling. “Ted used to sing that,” she said. 

Harry grew still, suddenly afraid that he had done something to hurt the woman who had increasingly become more and more a part of his family. 

“It’s a good thing, Harry,” she said, apparently noticing the new stiffness in his shoulders. “I like to be reminded of him. He’s the love of my life. It’s comforting to see that not every part of him has been lost from the world.” 

Harry nodded once, watching as she looked back down at Teddy with a serene smile. 

“How about that dinner then?” she asked, glancing back up at Harry and Delphi. “I’m curious to see whether you’ve any talent in the kitchen, or if I’ve got to work on finding you a house-elf to feed that precious girl.” 

Before Harry could respond, a loud  _ crack _ rent the air. He palmed his wand almost instantaneously and turned to shield Delphi--still clinging to him--from whatever had made the sound. Then, in one smooth motion, he extended his wand hand toward the red robed figure which had appeared behind him. By the time Harry recognized Ron standing there, his palms held up in the air in a sign of appeasement, he had already opened his mouth to utter a curse. He bit his lip to keep the word inside, but his wand tip sparked dangerously all the same. 

“Harry,” said Ron, sounding out of breath as he lowered his hands and took several quick steps forward. His eyes flickered over what was visible of the top of Delphi’s head, and then to Andromeda and Teddy in the background. “You’ll want to hand her back, mate.”

“What’s happened?” Harry asked, a tightness developing in his chest as he lowered his wand. What could possibly have sent Ron here to chase after him? Was it one of the Weasleys? Were they hurt?

“Hogwarts.” The word sent ice coursing through Harry’s veins. “There was some sort of explosion in the Gryffindor common room.” Ron looked pained as he spoke, his brows knitted together and his cheeks red. “It’s all hands on deck.” 

“Shit,” Harry swore, turning to Andromeda, who was holding out her empty arm to receive Delphi already. 

“Go,” she said, “I’ll keep her safe.” 

Harry kissed Delphi’s forehead fiercely before handing her over. “Lock the doors, raise the wards,” he said, and Andromeda nodded. “Love you, Delph. I’ll be back soon.” 

He followed Ron without another word, his pulse racing and his heart beating a wild tattoo against the inside of chest. He tried hard to think rationally as he turned to Disapparate once again, to consider the protocol he knew he ought to be following in an event such as this… But all he could see was Hermione lying in a hospital wing bed during their second year, unmoving and glassy eyed. His heart clenched painfully at the memory, and he turned on the spot, allowing the magic of Apparition to twist and compress him until he was little more than the pain and the dread that he could not see past. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

19 September 1998

She woke to the soft glow of a gas lamp burning at her bedside, and the feel of a warm hand grasping her own. She moved her fingers experimentally, brushing against callouses and soft flesh before the familiar hand retreated and something beside her shifted. She let her eyes open fully, her gaze trailing from the cheerily flickering lamp, down to her hand, and then up to the black haired, bearded man peering eagerly down at her. 

“Harry?” she asked, her voice hoarse. “What are you doing here?” She was confused. Just a few moments ago she had been standing in the common room chatting with Ginny. She’d been watching Neville retreat towards his dormitory when—the explosion came back to her all at once, and Hermione’s eyes widened. 

“Oh my god,” she said, “Ginny!” 

“She’s fine,” Harry assured her. “Everyone’s fine. Bumps and scrapes here and there, a few broken bones, but Madame Pomfrey was able to fix them up quick as you like. I’m afraid you got the worst of it.” 

Hermione tried to sit up, but a gentle pressure on her shoulder pushed her back down. “She’ll have my head if I let you do that,” Harry said, his hand warm against her skin through the thin hospital gown she wore. “I promised I wouldn’t make myself a nuisance, and I suspect she only let me stay because I’m almost an Auror.” 

“What happened?” Hermione settled back against the pillow without further argument, her gaze intent on Harry’s face as she watched him. It had not been so long since their last meeting, still, she could note a change in him. Perhaps it was the black robes he wore, but he looked more adult than ever as he peered down at her from his seat at the side of the bed. 

“Bloody first years,” Harry answered. “A pair of them were experimenting with potions in the common room. Said they were trying to brew Felix Felicis.” 

Hermione’s eyes widened. Felix Felicis was a difficult potion to brew even at the best of times. The only person she had ever met who had done it successfully was Horace Slughorn, a man who—though he had not been the most brilliant teacher—was certainly a gifted and practiced potioneer. Even she, who had successfully brewed the Polyjuice Potion as a second year, had never thought herself capable of attempting such a volatile potion as Liquid Luck. 

“The idiots,” Hermione hissed. “Was it Vane and Cartwright?” She thought those had been the two girls giggling over a cauldron in the common room. 

Harry grinned. “I’m afraid I can’t comment on ongoing investigations, Miss Granger,” he said. Hermione rolled her eyes and shook her head. 

“Pardon me,  _ Auror Potter _ ,” she said sweetly, “I was under the impression it was my best friend holding my hand earlier, not a Ministry employee.” 

His grin faltered for only a moment before he reached out again, laying his heavy hand over the top of hers gently. 

“I’m really glad you’re going to be okay,” he said, the smile he wore fading as his gaze roved from the crown of her head down to her chest and up again. 

Hermione looked down, following the path his eyes had taken and finding bandages peeking out from beneath her gown. She pulled the thin material away from her body and peered down at the clean white strips of cloth which wound around her chest. Above it, there were several scrapes which were halfway healed, no doubt a product of some potion she had been given in her sleep. 

“What was the damage?” Hermione asked, not sure she really wanted to know, but curious all the same. If she was going to be cross with the ridiculous first years who had caused an explosion in the common room, it would be wise to have all the facts. 

Harry winced before answering. “Several broken ribs, plenty of lacerations, and a hard knock to the head. I think Madame Pomfrey said something about a concussion, as well. You got a wicked cut on the back of your head either way.” 

“So that’s where the throbbing’s coming from,” said Hermione, raising a hand to her head and feeling a bandage there as well. “Who else was hurt?” 

“The two girls, obviously,” Harry answered. “Though they were lucky and landed on furniture instead of being thrown against a wall. Ginny came in with a broken arm and a few bits of cauldron sticking out of her legs. She was livid. I think come right down to it, the girls were more afraid of her than the swarm of Aurors interrogating them.” 

Hermione laughed, her chest aching as she did so. “Sounds like Ginny,” she said. “They’re lucky I was knocked out, or I would have joined her in the tongue lashing.” 

Harry smiled, his thumb stroking the top of her hand as he leaned forward and rested his elbows on the bed. Hermione felt her stomach clench at the familiarity, and her heart began to beat faster. 

“Anyone else?” she asked, her voice higher than normal. 

“A few younger years I recognized but don’t know very well. Most of those were just bumps and scrapes. One broken nose, but Neville healed that one on the spot.” 

“Wait, did you say ‘swarm of Aurors’?” Hermione spoke as his words from before finally registered. “How many is a ‘swarm’, exactly?” 

“Most of the department that wasn’t already out on assignment,” Harry said, looking slightly sheepish. “There were reports of an attack at Hogwarts. Apparently a third year flood the Ministry in a panic, talking about an explosion. I think the person who received the message assumed it was a retaliatory attack by the Death Eaters still on the loose.” 

“Christ,” Hermione swore, “that must have been terrifying.” 

Harry met her gaze, his green eyes soft as he bit his lip and shook his head. 

“Not nearly as scary as when they told me you’d been hurt.” 

Her heart leaped in her chest and she turned her hand over beneath his until they were palm to palm and she could twine her fingers between his. She knew he that he meant thinking of his friend hurt had been difficult for him, but her traitorous imagination could not help wondering if his show of affection was more than mere friendship at work. She squeezed his hand tightly and banished the thought before she could dwell on it any further. The last thing she needed at the beginning of a school year without Harry nearby, was to acknowledge or encourage an ill advised, burgeoning crush on the boy. The man. 

“Where’s Delphi?” Hermione asked, and it was probably her imagination, but she thought she felt Harry’s hand stiffen within her grasp. 

“With Andromeda,” he answered. 

“I loved the photos you sent,” Hermione said before she could think better of it. “Of you and her. She’s so beautiful, and you love her so much.” 

“I do.” Harry nodded. “And I know I’m not the only one.” 

“You’re not.” Hermione smiled at him, forcing herself to remove her hand from his and shifting until she was leaning back on her elbows. “Help me with these pillows,” she demanded. 

“Madame Pomfrey said—”

“Do I look like I care about what she said, Harry?” Hermione gave him a withering look she knew to be effective in gaining his support, and he bit his lip before moving her pillows to prop her up a bit more. “Thank you,” she said, settling back with a wince as her head began to pound. “There isn’t any pain relief potion around, is there?” 

Without saying a word, Harry reached for a small vial on her besides table, unstoppering it and holding it out for Hermione to take. “You’re allowed one of these every six hours.” 

Hermione took it, sniffed the mouth of the vial and, recognizing the potion within, drained it in one gulp. She sighed in immediate relief. Magic, she had decided long ago, was infinitely better than Muggle medicine. For one thing, analgesic potions worked immediately to relieve pain, unlike many drugs from her childhood which would take almost an hour to begin working. 

“The bag is brilliant too, you know,” said Hermione, remembering the other present that Harry had sent that morning. “The charms were perfect, and the satchel is, honestly, lovely.” 

Harry grimaced. 

“What is it?” Hermione asked. 

“I’m afraid there was another casualty in the common room…” he said, looking serious. “The bag didn’t make it. Whatever those girls ended up brewing splattered on the thing and ate right through the leather.” 

Hermione practically growled, clenching her fists as she imagined what it might feel like to hex the most idiotic pair of first years she had ever encountered. Harry tried not to laugh and failed miserably. 

“Does the destruction of my personal property amuse you, Harry?” she asked, her voice embarrassingly high.

“No!” He was still laughing, and Hermione continued to glare at him. “Sorry! It’s just—” he paused to laugh again and Hermione narrowed her eyes. 

“What? It’s just  _ what _ ?”

“It’s just that Ron said this was how you would react. He thought the bag would piss you off more than the broken ribs.” His speech dissolved into laughter again as Harry wiped at the corners of his eyes, and despite her annoyance, Hermione felt herself softening at the the look on his face and the way his shoulders shook with mirth. 

“Ron was here?” she asked, hoping that asking more questions might give him more to laugh about, but the sound of his friend’s name on her lips only seemed to draw the good humor out of him. 

“Yeah,” he said, biting his lip and then nodding. “He was sorry he couldn’t stay. He said—Well, he didn’t think you’d want to see him first thing.” 

Hermione frowned. “I wouldn’t have minded,” she said softly. “He’s been one of my closest friends since I was twelve. Of course I understand things are awkward now but… Well, I had hoped they would return to normal eventually. Do you know what I mean?” 

Harry nodded, his eyes flicking to look towards the curtain which divided Hermione’s bed from the rest of the hospital wing. Hermione wondered whether Ginny was sleeping somewhere beyond. 

“I do,” he answered her, his eyes meeting hers once more. “It’s hard, I think, when you’re not the one left broken hearted.” 

“You’re not?” she asked before she could think better of it. 

“Broken hearted? No. I don’t think so. I’m sad, but I know it’s for the best and—” he stopped speaking abruptly and leaned back in his seat, distancing himself from her in a move which would not have been so obvious if she had not known him so well. “No,” he repeated, “I’m not… Are you?”

Hermione bit her lip, staring down at her hands which she had clasped over her lap. She shook her head. 

“I feel like I should be, sometimes. Like today, he didn’t even send me a note for my birthday—”

“The prat.”

“No. I wasn’t even really bothered. I wasn’t sad about it like I thought I might be, just a bit annoyed that things weren’t normal, like before we started dating. I don’t think that’s what you feel like when your heart is broken… I think you feel more like not sending someone a gift on their birthday.” She stopped talking, letting her head rest against the pillow behind her and her eyes close. They felt heavy now, as the potion she had taken began to strengthen. She had forgotten that one of the side effects of Madame Pomfrey’s better pain potions was extreme drowsiness. 

“I should let you rest,” Harry said, and Hermione hummed in response. 

“Go see Delphi,” she said, her words hanging on to one another as she struggled to keep her newly leaden eyes open. She could see from beneath her lashes the way that Harry’s face seemed to brighten at the mention of his daughter, and she reached out a hand for his. As she took it in her own and gave it a tight squeeze, she watched his expression morph from one of loving pride, to something more surprised, more heated. But before she could examine the look further, or even commit it to memory, her eyes were closing again and she felt herself slipping easily back into unconsciousness, Harry’s hand still warm in her own. 

  
  



	16. Chapter 16

20 September 1998

Hermione,

I’m sorry I couldn’t stay longer yesterday, and as pleased as I was to have an excuse to see you, I will thank you to not end up in the hospital wing again. I know it’s a temptation now that you’re aware it gets you all sorts of special attention from the Auror department. 

Kidding. I’m kidding. Please don’t send me a howler. 

Penitently, 

Harry (The Chosen One)

_________________________

22 September 1998 

Harry James Potter, 

If you think reminding me that a majority of the Wizarding world thinks the sun shines out your arse is going to make me overlook your overly enlarged head, you don’t know me very well at all. Luckily for you, I am willing to ignore your conceit (for now) and simply tell you that I did enjoy seeing you, despite the circumstances. 

Would you believe that in a school of nearly a thousand students, I’m actually lonely without your ridiculously unruly head of hair haunting my every move? 

Magnanimously, 

Hermione 

PS: As it turns out, one of the first years who blew up the common room is in possession of a camera, and loaned it to me. You’ll find the fruits of my labor enclosed. Please show them to Delphi so she doesn’t forget me.

_________________________

25 September 1998 

Hermione, 

Wow. You look brilliant in those photos. Delphi kept pointing at them at saying “My,” over and over again. She really misses you. 

I haven’t got much to add, unfortunately. Work is continuing to kick my arse, though training will end Mid-October, at which point I’ve been granted a month of family leave. I’m looking forward to spending more quality time with Delphi, but a part of me is going to miss the feeling I get when I’m training, or following more experienced Aurors around on simple jobs. As steep as the learning curve is, I enjoy what I’m doing. That’s important, right? 

Missing you, 

Harry

_________________________

30 September 1998

Harry,

Must be quick as my course load seems to have tripled. I’m glad you’re enjoying work, and I miss you both terribly. 

Fire-call tomorrow night? I can be in the common room around ten. 

Hermione

_________________________

Yes!!!

Harry

_________________________

October 28, 1998

Harry, 

I’m afraid our Fire-calls have been noticed at last. The Headmistress was less than pleased when she realized I was making unsanctioned calls outside of the school. Apparently, it’s not allowed. I told her it ought to be written down somewhere if it’s a rule, or addressed at the start of term. And that’s how I lost twenty house points for cheek. 

Fortunately, she agreed to my request before I made the mistake of mentioning our method of communication. 

I can hardly wait to see you! 

Love, 

Hermione  
_________________________

Number 12 Grimmauld Place  
31 October 1998

The house was dark when she entered, and she was pleased to find that despite the two months that had passed between now and when she had resided there, Harry had not changed the wards to exclude her. 

A sound somewhere in the darkness caught her attention, and Hermione drew her wand, flicking it upward to turn on the lights above the entrance hall. 

“Hermione.” Her name was spoken softly and with what sounded to her like relief. She looked up and caught sight of Harry standing in the middle of the stairs which led to the first floor and the drawing room. Merlin, he looked amazing. She knew it was probably wrong to appreciate how attractive he was—they were only friends, after all, despite what her increasingly over-active imagination might have been suggesting to her during their long fire-calls this past month—but she could not help the little flip her stomach gave as she took in the sight of his neatly groomed beard and muscled biceps. Auror training had, apparently, done generous things to his physique. 

“Hello, Harry,” she said, stowing her wand and shifting self consciously on her feet. She could hardly remember the last time she had gone more than a few days without seeing Harry in person, though she supposed it must have been during the summer after their sixth year. It was just shy of awkward to be standing in front of him now and seeing the changes in him, after having been away. 

Harry moved quickly down the steps, a wide grin on his face, and Hermione smiled in relief. She moved to meet him at the base of the stairs and wrapped her arms around his neck as he bent down to bury his face in her hair. She could smell leather and broom polish over his normal, masculine scent, and something sweet she thought might have come from Delphi. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he murmured, and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her ear as he spoke. She shivered and chastised herself internally. 

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” she said as he loosened his grip on her and she forced herself to mirror the action. “I know Halloween isn’t your favorite holiday, and I wasn’t terribly keen on leaving you alone for it.” 

“You worry too much,” said Harry, but he kept smiling all the same. 

“Where’s Delphi?” Hermione peered past Harry’s shoulders and up the stairs. “Is she sleeping already?” 

“I’m sorry,” answered Harry. “I tried to keep her up, but she practically insisted I put her to bed. She kept levitating her pajamas at me.” 

Hermione laughed, putting an arm around Harry’s waist as they turned to make their way up the stairs. 

“No matter,” she said. “I’ll see her in the morning.” 

When they reached the first floor landing, Hermione could see that the lamps and sconces inside of the cozy drawing room were already lit. They entered together, Harry’s arm around her shoulders until they reached the sofa and disentangled, dropping down to sit side by side. Hermione could smell broom polish in the air, and spied a broomstick laying on the floor beside the end table. 

“Have you started flying again?” she asked, nudging the handle of the thing with her toe. 

Harry looked down at the racing broom and smiled. “A bit, yeah,” he said. “It’s policy for Aurors to have one, and they said I could supply my own if I wanted anything beyond the standard.” 

“Is it? Beyond the standard, I mean?” She wasn’t sure, as the only part of it she could really see was the end, but she thought it looked a bit like the Firebolt Harry had lost the previous year. 

Harry, ever enthusiastic about all things flying and Quidditch, lifted the broom up and held it across his lap for Hermione to inspect. “Just a bit,” he said. 

Hermione looked over the thing with her unpracticed eye. She might have thought that being friends with Harry and Ron for so long would have prepared her to identify a broomstick, but she would have been wrong. It wasn’t until she saw the glint of gold filigree at the handle that she even knew what brand it was. 

“Another Firebolt? I hadn’t realized they’d made another model.”

“Three other models since I got my first one,” Harry corrected, and Hermione might have laughed at the look of pride on his face had she not known how serious he could be about this sort of thing. 

“Well, it looks like a perfectly lovely broom,” she said. 

Harry quirked a brow. 

“Lovely? Hermione, babies are lovely. Flowers are lovely. Perfume is lovely. A Firebolt 400 is not lovely.” 

“My apologies,” she laughed, “I’ll try harder to come up with a more masculine adjective next time you show me your broomstick.” 

The look Harry shot her then was hard to place until Hermione replayed her words inside of her head. Instantly, heat coursed through her as she recognized the expression in his eyes. 

She blushed, bit her lip, and looked away. Silence surrounded them as Hermione tried to convince her heart to stop racing, and when she had regained some modicum of control over her thoughts, she looked back up at him. 

It was a mistake. 

He was sitting closer now, staring down at her with a searching expression. Oh Christ. Her heart began to race again and her skin tingled and grew hot as she blushed. What was he doing? His green eyes were wide, his pupils dilated as he stared down at her. She could feel his warm breath as he exhaled shallowly and then captured his own bottom lip between straight white teeth. Without meaning to, Hermione found herself imagining what it might feel like to bite into that lip herself. It would be plump and slick as she ran her tongue across it. 

Her blush intensified but she found that she could not break the gaze locked on Harry’s. Instead, she licked her lip, unconscious of the small action until his eyes flicked from hers to follow the tip of her tongue as it darted out and then disappeared again. She thought she heard him groan. 

“Hermione.” Her name was barely a breath as he spoke, and she felt her heart begin to beat more wildly. 

“Yes?” she asked, surprised that her voice was in the least bit audible. 

“Yes?” he repeated, those emerald irises flashing up to meet her gaze once more, a desperate question in their depths. 

Her next breath came out in a shaking whoosh as she nodded and he moved forward, one of his hands lifting to brush across the nape of her neck and up into her hair as the Firebolt clattered onto the floor. 

His kiss practically sizzled as they made contact and her heart, which had, just a moment ago, been attempting to break out of her chest, stilled. For a single moment, as she felt his warm lips press against hers, the world seemed to stop; every molecule, every last atom froze and suspended as her head and her heart echoed with the same word. 

Yes.

As the world resumed, Hermione felt her heart begin to beat anew, furiously pounding within her chest once more as Harry’s mouth slanted over her own and she felt him draw her bottom lip between his. The tip of his tongue traced over the curve of it, and she took a shaky breath without breaking the kiss. God, he was too bloody perfect. His fingers, nestled in her hair, were warm against her scalp, and as his other arm wound around her waist and drew her in to press more closely against him, she felt as if she might burst into flames. He was radiating heat, a fierce, all consuming sensation which was drawing her in, enticing her to deepen the kiss just a little more. 

She did, letting her own tongue sweep outward and touch his before she ran it over his top lip and he suckled at hers, which he still held captive. She thought she might have moaned, and as his tongue swept forward again, running along the seam between her teeth, she could hear her heart beat thumping in her ears. She had never imagined, never let herself consider, what kissing Harry might have been like. If she had been pressed before, she might have admitted that there was a slight possibility that he would be talented, but she had not expected that his touch would ignite her, his lips devour her as she ached to bring him ever closer. She wanted to feel his heart beating against hers, to touch the flushed skin just beneath the collar of his jumper. She settled for letting her own hand caress his cheek, feeling the soft beard there and burying her fingers in it before reaching up to wrap around the back of his neck. 

Without warning, Harry withdrew, turning his face to to side and glancing upward as Hermione’s unfocused eyes tried to follow his gaze. 

“Delphi,” he said, his voice hoarse as Hermione tried to make sense of what was happening. 

“What?” she asked, her heart still pounding so hard she could feel it beneath her breast. 

“Delphi,” Harry repeated, and he looked down at her, his eyes shining still before his expression twisted into one of worry. 

“Oh,” Hermione said lamely. She let her hand fall from his neck to his shoulder, and then picked it gingerly up as she leaned backward. His hand dropped from her hair as she scooted back, and he frowned as he unwrapped his other arm from around her waist. Hermione cleared her throat.

“You should probably—”

“I need to—”

They fell silent, and Hermione kept her eyes trained on her lap. 

“I’ll be right back,” Harry said. Hermione nodded, forcing herself to look up and into his face. She thought he looked concerned, though whether it was for Delphi or what they had just done, she could not tell. 

“Right, of course,” she said, “I’ll just wait here.” 

She watched him go, and as he disappeared out onto the landing, she shut her eyes tightly, raising her fists to cover them as she groaned and leaned forward to rest her elbows on her knee-caps. 

What had she just done? What had they just done? Her lips were still buzzing from the thorough snogging Harry had just given her, and as her heart resumed its accelerated rhythm, she found she could not regret it in the least. She had just kissed Harry, her best friend, the father of her god daughter, the hero of the bloody Wizarding world. 

God, it had felt good. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

The nursery was dark when he entered, the charm on the unicorn nightlight beside Delphi’s crib having failed. For a moment, Harry froze. A moonlit kitchen and a filthy, rickety crib forced their way into his thoughts. 

Harry frowned and waved his wand as he made his way into the room, restoring the statue to its former, glowing glory, before reaching into the crib and lifting Delphi up and into his arms. She continued to fuss as he settled her against his chest, with her cheek resting on his shoulder as she sobbed more quietly. 

“Sh, sh, sh,” he said, rubbing small circles into her quivering back. For perhaps the thousandth time since Delphi had come into his life, Harry cursed Euphemia Rowle for what she had done to his daughter. 

He swayed from side to side as Delphi quieted, humming beneath his breath an old tune half remembered from the short time he had been loved as a child. He felt the moment she went limp against him and her breathing evened out once more. He shifted her down, cradling her in his arms as he stared down at her face, peaceful now in the low light. His eyes traced the soft curve of her well rounded cheeks, and the cupids bow of her upper lip. She was enchanting, even in sleep. 

Harry tried not to jostle her as he laid her back down in her crib face down—she seemed to sleep better with the mattress against her cheek— and then took several quiet steps to the door. He paused only long enough to take one last look around the room, making sure that all was as it should be, before he let himself back onto the second floor landing where he and Delphi’s rooms were both located. It wasn’t until his feet hit the top of the stairs that he remembered what he had left behind in the drawing room. 

Hermione. A thoroughly snogged, Hermione, with her lips slightly swollen and her hair mussed where he had threaded his hands through it. 

What the hell had he done? 

Merlin, her lips had been so soft and warm and intoxicating against his own. If kissing Ginny had been pleasant and exciting, than this was a whole other category of pleasure he had had yet to be introduced to. He hadn’t wanted to stop when the chiming of Delphi’s monitor had sounded in his ears, and if she hadn’t woken, he wasn’t sure he they would have stopped. 

He closed his eyes, remembering the feel of Hermione in his arms, of her breasts pressed tightly against his chest through her jumper and of his arm wrapped around her waist, drawing her nearer still. The heat between them had been consuming, his breath little more than eager puffs as his heart had seemed to pound between his ears. 

Harry shifted uncomfortably where he stood, his hand reaching for the straining placket of his trousers to adjust himself before hesitating and withdrawing. 

What the hell was he thinking, lingering on that kiss? It had been bloody fantastic, but he knew—they both knew—it had been a terrible idea. They were best friends, for Christ’s sake, the last thing they needed to do was complicate things by snogging. Fuck. He was a new father, and Delphi’s interruption had come at a timely moment, reminding him of his duty to his daughter. He couldn’t expect someone like Hermione to become involved with him now. She had plans for her life, and an unparalleled talent that he knew would need a great deal of attention to flourish. Kissing him could only lead to heartache for them both when she was still at Hogwarts and he was here with Delphi. And it wasn’t that he didn’t think she cared for her goddaughter, he knew Hermione loved her a great deal, but if he had learned anything from Ginny, it was that the life he had chosen was not something he could expect someone else to want. 

No. Things would be better if they stopped this now, if Hermione returned to Hogwarts and they resumed the easy friendship they had been cultivating since childhood. There was no risk to their relationship as it stood. If they both continued on as they had been until now, there was no reason Hermione would not stay a central part of he and Delphi’s life after her graduation, but if they finished what they had started earlier that night… well, there was every chance things might go sour, and he and Delphi would lose the most important person in their life. 

Harry’s heart sank as he forced himself down the stairs and back into the drawing room. Hermione sat where he had left her, her hair still a mess as she stared down at her hands and her heels bounced up of the the floor in quick succession, shaking her lap.

And then she looked up. 

Fuck, her lips were still slightly swollen and he could see pink skin near them, where his beard had rubbed against her. He fought an instinctual urge to cross the room, pull her up out of her chair, and begin kissing her anew. 

“Everything okay?” she asked, her amber eyes meeting his. Her brows were knitted together in concern. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Just a nightmare. She’s sleeping now though.” 

The smile that bloomed on her face was beautiful, and Harry forced himself to look down as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Her smiles weren’t for him, not until he could get his bloody hormones under control. He shouldn’t be noticing things like that. Friends didn’t notice the flush on their friends cheeks or wish that they would grin at them again. It was like fifth year over again, and the small crush he had had on Hermione before he had begun to suspect that Ron fancied her. He had been able to control his thoughts then and he could damn well do it now. Nevermind the many times he had seen her during their year on the run, and let his mind wander. That had been different, a desire born of continuous close proximity and casual intimacy. It hadn’t meant anything. 

He looked back up at her. 

She patted the seat cushion beside her in invitation. 

Fuck. 

“Hermione, I—“ He paused, unsure of what to say, and then shook his head, his teeth digging into his lower lip until he tasted blood and winced. 

“Oh,” Hermione said, her expression faltering as her eyes widened and she blinked rapidly before looking back down at her lap. 

“Harry, I wasn’t—“

“I just think we—“

They spoke at the same time and both laughed nervously. A little tension melted out of the air and Harry sighed before sitting down on the opposite side of the sofa from Hermione. 

“Look,” she began, and Harry obeyed, meeting her gaze nervously as his stomach gave a little flip. “I wasn’t suggesting that we… continue. I was just hoping that we could talk about… it.” 

Harry felt his traitorous pulse quicken at her reference to the kiss, and clenched his fists tightly to try and calm himself. It didn’t work, and as the memory of her in his arms returned, he felt himself begin to harden. His cheeks grew hot, and he leaned forward to try and hide his reaction. 

“Okay,” he said. “I agree.” 

“Good.” 

“Yeah, good.” 

There was an awkward silence again and Harry watched Hermione for some sign of what they should do. At last, she sighed and rolled her eyes before leaning back against the sofa. 

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” she said, “This is ridiculous.” 

“Ridiculous?”

“We are adults, Harry. We should be able to discuss something as simple as snogging without blushing like school-girls.” 

Harry arched a brow. 

“You are a school-girl, Hermione.” 

“Shut up,” she said, and he smiled at the way she huffed. This was good, this was familiar. They had always been able to talk to each other about anything. This would be no different.

“I only meant,” Hermione continued, “That it doesn’t have to be a big deal. We’re both grown ups, now. We are at perfect liberty to kiss each other if we want to, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. Not that I’m suggesting we continue to kiss, or that I didn’t like the kiss we had, because that isn’t the case at all. I just want to be clear that we don’t have anything to be ashamed of. People kiss all the time, and when you’ve got two, unattached, attractive people who are familiar with one another, there’s bound to be some level of biological attraction that manifests itself between— Harry, what on earth are you laughing about now?”

He couldn’t help himself. She always rambled like this when she was particularly nervous, and he didn’t think he would ever not find it amusing. 

“Attractive, am I?” he asked, his full throated laughter softening to a chuckle.

“Shut it.” She scowled and crossed her arms beneath her breasts. Harry forced himself to keep his eyes trained on her face. 

“Sorry,” he said. “I just… I wanted to make sure we were okay, that we hadn’t messed anything up.” He watched as her face seemed to drain of emotion, becoming a placid mask. He pressed on. “You’re my best friend, Hermione. I couldn’t bear it if we kept doing… this… and messed it all up. You’re too important to me.” 

“Of course,” she said, and her voice was curiously flat as she avoided his gaze. “You’re right.” She paused then, and he saw her begin to blush once more before she spoke. This time, there was a hint of emotion in her voice that made his heart ache. “Of course it was enjoyable, but like I said, we’re adults. We’re more than capable of controlling ourselves.” 

Speak for yourself, thought Harry. The kiss had been more than enjoyable, and he itched to pull her into his arms, to remind her of exactly how enjoyable it had been. It was several seconds before he was able to convince himself that that would be a bad idea. 

“Right,” he said instead, refusing to give in to the base desires which seemed intent on destroying his most important friendship. “I’m glad we agree.” 

Hermione cleared her throat and looked away before standing up. 

“I’m a bit thirsty,” she said, “Walk me to the kitchen?” 

“Yes, good.” The kitchen had no cozy sofas upon which he could imagine Hermione reclining as his hands roved over her—

“Coming?” 

He jumped out of his seat and nodded, following her out of the drawing room and cursing himself as twelve kinds of fool as he went.


	17. Chapter 17

Hogsmeade Village

28 November 1998

The tea shop was tiny, but the lack of square footage did nothing to diminish the lurid pink and purple aura which infested the place. Hermione had once been proud to say that she had avoided Madame Puddifoot’s entirely; unfortunately, when she had said yes to Ginny’s constant pestering about a double date, she had apparently forfeited that particular vanity. Still, her friend had been desperate for a familiar and trustworthy face to accompany her on a highly irregular (and therefore somewhat exciting) date with a Slytherin. Hermione, knowing how heartbroken Ginny had been over the end of her relationship with Harry, had agreed to tag along. This was a good step for Ginny, and Hermione fully supported it because that was what a good friend should do—not because she felt guilty about kissing the red-head’s ex. Definitely not because of that. 

“Pass the sugar, will you?” 

Hermione looked up across the table at the man sitting across from her. Neville looked sick, as if he’d just eaten a flobberworm and it was still wriggling about in his belly. Hermione didn’t think that sugar would do him any good, but she did not object as she scooted the bowl silently across the table to him, avoiding the tea-lights flickering in their heart shaped holders at the center of the table. 

“Thanks,” he said, and took three large scoops, stirring them into his cup and then setting his spoon down on the tablecloth.

Hermione risked a look at the table beside them. Ginny sat with her hair spilling down her back, artfully curled and pinned away from her face. She had done her make-up that morning—something the Quidditch captain rarely bothered with—and her eyes popped behind thick lashes and smoky powder. Even her clothes seemed abnormally neat, with creases where they had been ironed. But she was smiling, and her eyes shone as she watched Theodore Nott animatedly discuss his latest potions project. For his part, Nott— _ Theo _ , Hermione reminded herself—seemed to be enjoying himself. He paused every so often to solicit participation from the girl across the table, leaning in to listen when she discussed first her team, and then her classes. She supposed that they made a handsome enough couple; they were certainly strikingly opposite in their coloring. Theo’s close cropped black curls and dark eyes had long been one of the hidden treasures of Slytherin house, and Hermione had never once heard him utter the word ‘Mudblood’. 

“Don’t you think so, Hermione?” Startled, she sat up a little straighter at the sound of her name. 

“Sorry, what?”

Theo smiled in her direction and Hermione felt like a child caught lazing in class. She should have been paying more attention to the conversation at hand, they were, ostensibly, on a double date, despite the fact that neither Hermione now Neville had said more than “hello” and “how are you” thus far. 

“I was just saying how Ancient Runes is actually useful,” Theo supplied. “Professor Vector was lecturing about using runes in defensive shield work last week, and how it can add an element of permanency to even temporary shields.” 

“Right.” Hermione recalled the lecture in detail. “Yes, I thought that was fascinating.” She would have continued, but the look of panic on Ginny’s face stopped her short. Suddenly, Hermione remembered that Ginny had never taken Ancient Runes, and would therefore be at a disadvantage during any discussion of them. 

“What about you, Neville?” Hermione asked quickly. “Learn anything new lately?” 

Neville’s expression at being drawn into the conversation was almost painful, and Hermione felt a pang of guilt at having thrown him to the proverbial wolves. She had not known when she had accepted Ginny’s invitation that Neville would be her date. If she had known, she might have declined, not due to any failing on Neville’s part—Hermione found herself relying more on his friendship the farther the school year progressed—but because in the past few months it had become painfully obvious to her that he carried a torch for the feisty young Quidditch captain. Watching Ginny as she had invited Neville to come along with them to Hogsmeade had been a train wreck. When she had asked him on a double date, Neville had not realized he would not be paired with Ginny, and he had agreed immediately. Hermione had tried not to take it personally when he had realized that was not the case and the blood had drained from his face. 

“Oh. Um. Nothing, really,” he said, his face flushing as he lifted his cup of tea and took a sip before setting it down and continuing to stare studiously into its depths. 

“I suspect that’s fairly common this close to Christmas,” said Theo kindly, and then turned back to Ginny to continue their conversation. 

Hermione’s shoulders relaxed in relief, and she allowed herself to slump back in her chair, nudging Neville’s foot with her toe and giving him an apologetic look. Neville only shrugged in response and cleared his throat. 

The rest of the date passed in miserable silence for the pair of them, as Ginny and Theo continued to chat animatedly beside them. The pair were, apparently, hitting it off, and as the minutes ticked by, Hermione watched as Neville grew steadily more miserable. Finally, after a full hour of tea time, Hermione had had enough. She stood abruptly and smiled apologetically at Ginny, who she pated on the back. 

“It’s been lovely, Gin, really. I was wondering, though, whether Neville might walk with me to Scrivenshaft’s?” The last she aimed at Neville, still sitting with downcast eyes in his chair. He looked up at the sound of his name, relief flooding his face as he nodded three times and stood to join her. 

“Yeah, of course,” he said. “Thanks Her— I mean, I’ve had a really great time. Thanks for inviting me along.” 

For her part, Ginny looked suspicious, but not overly concerned, and so when she gave her consent and waved them off, Hermione fled with Neville on her heels. 

When they were out in the open air, the smell of scented candles and sugary tea behind them, they both breathed a sigh of relief and slowed their gait as they walked down the road. 

“My God,” Hermione said when she was sure they were far enough away they wouldn’t be overheard. “What people see in that place I will never know.” 

Neville’s chuckle was somewhat subdued, and Hermione nudged him in the shoulder as they continued. 

“Perk up,” she said, “it’s not the end of the world.” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Neville dodged, and Hermione arched a brow at him. 

“Neville, I don’t mean to embarrass you, but we’re friends, and I have noticed the way you look at her.” 

Neville blushed scarlet again, and Hermione patted him on the arm. “It’s alright,” she comforted, “I swear I’m not judging. It just became a little apparent after the potions accident in the common room. You practically ran when she showed up. That’s what you were going to tell me, wasn’t it? That you fancied Ginny?” 

Neville bit his lip but nodded. His shoulders seemed to relax a bit as he looked up at her. 

“That’s great, Neville!” Hermione said, feeling excited at the prospect of her two friends becoming involved. 

“It’s really not,” disagreed Neville. “You were in the same teashop I was just then, weren’t you? She’s falling in love with  _ Nott. _ ” He practically spat the name.

“Oh. Oh, Neville, no. Ginny’s just got out of a serious relationship! This is her first date since…” She gulped. “Since Harry. I’m sure it won’t be anything serious or lasting. Theo’s not really her type.”

“What, she doesn’t like charming, rich, geniuses?” 

Hermione laughed despite herself. “I think she may like the idea of them, but Ginny’s like you. She likes to get her hands dirty and to let her hair get tangled. I can’t see her really being happy with a proper bookworm like Theodore Nott.” 

“I feel like I just did see it,” Neville lamented, and Hermione hooked her arm through his, still pressing onward toward the quill shop. 

“You saw her trying to rebound,” Hermione comforted. “I promise, Neville, one day you’ll have your chance. It was you she went to the Yule Ball with, wasn’t it?”

“As friends.” Neville sounded miserable. 

“I heard you stayed out slow dancing until the professors shut the place down. That doesn’t happen when a couple are just there as friends. I’d wager Ginny has thought about the possibility at least once or twice. All is certainly not lost.” 

They reached Scrivenshaft’s without saying anymore, and by the time they began browsing, Neville looked mildly less like he was about to vomit. Hermione considered it a success. 

The shop itself was, as advertised, a quill shop. Rows and rows of beautifully manicured feathers lined the shelves on one wall. Another was filled with ink bottles in a plethora of colors and sizes. Parchment was stacked according to weight, size, and color, in the back room, and as Hermione was running low, she went to have a look and restock her school supply. The many letters she and Harry had continued to exchange since their encounter on Halloween had not helped the matter. 

Hermione sighed as she thumbed through sheaves of blank parchment. She could not bring herself to regret the kiss they had shared in his Drawing Room. She knew that Harry did not feel the same, but, damn it all, it had been the most perfect kiss of her life. How could she not think fondly of a moment which had brought her such immense joy? Still, the amount of time she spent reflecting on the kiss was beginning to be a problem, and though they had agreed that pursuing anything romantic would be a mistake, she could feel herself continuing to fall for her green eyed best friend. And whether it was in her own imagination, or a natural byproduct of having shared a somewhat intimate moment, Hermione could not help but read into the letters they continued to exchange, seeing conversations charged with unconfessed emotion where there were probably just updates about a friend’s life. The only peace she got from reading any of Harry’s letters was from his comments about Delphi. At least her relationship with her goddaughter remained solid and without subtext. 

“Hermione Granger, fancy seeing you here.” 

Startled, Hermione looked up as a short woman with bleach blonde curls and sparkling glasses called out to her from across the room. Her fists instantly clenched and her back stiffened. 

“Rita.” Hermione spat her name without even trying to hide her antipathy. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

“Getting a new Quick Quotes Quill, darling.” Skeeter smiled. “Though, now that I’ve found you, I’m remembering I did have a few questions—”

“No comment,” Hermione interrupted before the reporter had the chance to finish. 

“Really? Not even about your Muggle goddaughter?” There was a quill in Skeeters hand now, poised above a notepad which floated in the air in front of her. 

“No Comment,” Hermione repeated, unwilling to rise to the insect’s bait. 

“Some people—not me, of course, but  _ some _ people—are saying the child ought to have been brought up in the Muggle welfare system. They say that it was wrong of the Ministry to fast-track her adoption by an eighteen year old wizard, just because he happened to be famous.”

“Get out of my way, Rita,” Hermione demanded, but the other woman only stepped fully into the doorway which led into the front room of the shop. 

“Do you think it at all odd that Harry would adopt the child of Muggles he reportedly hated?” 

“What I think is odd,” snapped Hermione, “is that you continue think it’s a good idea to pester me after the history we’ve shared. I’ve still got a jar on my shelf, Rita, and if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself inside of it.”

Hermione could see the fear manifest itself in the woman’s gaze as she gulped. 

“I’m registered now,” she said, sounding hoarse.

“I don’t give a good god damn. Leave me alone. Leave my goddaughter alone. Leave Harry alone. We’re not children to be bullied any longer, and you’d do well to remember that.” 

She pushed her way past the reporter without another word, fuming as she set off to find Neville. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

_ 28 November 1998 _

_ Dear Harry,  _

_ It’s been a week. I saw the news yesterday and thought of you immediately. I know you’re on leave until next year, and knowing that was the only thing that kept me from owling immediately. It’s insane that a year and a half after the battle, we’re still having to deal with Death Eater attacks. The only thing I can be grateful for is that the perpetrators were captured. Especially  _ this _ one. That Lestrange is behind bars will always be a comfort to me. Still, I saw a girl sobbing at the Hufflepuff table when she got the news. Apparently her cousin was one of the dead.  _

_ I wish it was all over, that every single one of them was behind bars so that we could go on living without having to look over our shoulders every few feet. It’s unfair that the end of the war doesn’t mean the end of fear or the absence of danger. I want so badly to bring my parents back, but to do it now, when there are still Death Eaters targeting the families of Muggleborns… it would be negligent of me. Selfish.  _

_ Sorry to be so maudlin. It’s just that I can’t always pretend that everything has resolved itself. I feel like at school I have to be Hermione Granger, the girl who helped off Voldemort. Talented, self-assured, and endlessly optimistic. But with you… well, you know. I can be myself when we talk, I can be scared or unhappy, and you don’t hate me for it.  _

_ In other news, I went on a date this morning. You’ll never guess who with. Neville! Yes, there is a story there, but I haven’t the time to write it all out now, so you’ll just have to wait for my next letter. For now, though, I want to know all about Delphi.  _

_ I  _ love _ the little drawing of hers that you sent. I know it’s all ham fisted scribbles at this point, but I can just imagine her sitting in her high chair with crayons scattered around her and this paper at her fingertips. It’s a little piece of her world, and it’s perfect. Please remember to tell her I love her, and to give her one hundred kisses on her round little cheeks from me. I’m honestly terrified that she’ll forget me by the time Christmas holidays roll around.  _

_ Speaking of Christmas, have you got plans? I’m trying to decide what I’ll do. Ginny has invited me to come back to the Burrow with her, but I can’t help but think it might be awkward or unpleasant to live there even for a few short weeks… Ron still hasn’t written this year. I’m starting to lose hope that he’ll ever forgive me. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to stay with you again and spend some quality time with Delphi. I understand if you don’t think it’s a good idea after Halloween, but I thought I would ask in any case.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ Hermione.  _

_ PS: I wasn’t sure whether I should mention this, but I really think I should. Rita Skeeter cornered me at Scrivenshaft’s today. She was asking all sorts of questions about Delphi… She called her a Muggle. I told her to piss off, of course, but I know she’s confronted you a few times, and I wanted to let you know that you shouldn’t drop your guard where she is concerned. The vulture is relentless.  _

OoOoOoOoOoO

Number 12 Grimmauld Place

28 November 1998

Harry lay on his bed, fuming. Fucking Rita Skeeter. The reporter had been continuing to make his life miserable, tracking him down after work and hounding him whenever he ventured out into public with Delphi. It had gotten so bad that he had taken to transfiguring disguises for himself before he went to the bloody grocery store. It was getting old and wearing massively on his patience. The things the ridiculous hag were saying were despicable and low, even for the same attention seeking cow who had sensationalized story after story about his adolescence, but what frightened him more was how eerily insightful they seemed to be. Of course, Skeeter couldn’t know that her questions were touching on truths Harry would do terrible things to keep secret—he thought he might break several important laws before he let someone ruin his daughter’s life by exposing the truth of her birth—but that her wild conjectures were so startlingly close to the truth was concerning. He would have to be more careful than ever to make sure that the past remained where it belonged, that Delphi was protected… and that meant finding a way to deal with Skeeter. 

He looked back down at the letter, his eyes skimming from the top down again until they caught on another paragraph which had felt like a punch to the gut to read.

What the hell did Hermione mean she’d gone on a date with Neville? Harry balled up the letter and threw it across the room, still scowling. What could possibly have induced her to do something to stupid as go out with the toad-loving, Remembrall carrying, great bloody snake murdering Neville? No offense to Neville, who Harry had once been quite fond of, but he was hardly fit to date someone as brilliant, quick witted, and lovely as Hermione. 

And what the hell was she thinking, even considering staying at the burrow? Of  _ course _ she would stay with him and Delphi! Surely she hadn’t worried that she wouldn’t be welcome. He had missed her more than he’d ever missed anyone before, since she had been gone. She was his  _ best friend _ for Merlin’s sake, and Ron might have been daft enough to ignore her, but Harry certainly wasn’t. He thought her staying with him would be a brilliant idea. She’d take the room on the floor above his again, and they’d spend their days playing with Delphi or taking her into Muggle London to see the animals at the zoo or to the British Museum, where Hermione could hem and haw over artifacts to her heart’s content. 

In the evenings, they would return to the house with a bag of takeaway or fresh groceries to prepare. They’d do the dishes together and put Delphi to bed, taking turns singing her favorite lullabies and reading books until the little girl was asleep. Afterwards, they would sneak quietly out of the room, taking care to step gently on the stairs as they made their way down to the drawing room. They’d close the door behind them and settle onto the sofa together. He’d be able to feel her arm warm against his as she leaned into him and laid her head on his shoulder. Her hair would brush over his neck and spill down across his chest, and he’d be able to smell the sweet shampoo she used—the one he could smell lingering in the steamy air after she’d had a shower. 

Harry rolled onto his back, his pants straining uncomfortably as he let his eyes close, blocking out the lamp light which filtered through his bedroom window from the street below.  _ What am I doing _ , he thought as his hand reached down to idly stroke himself through the flannel of his pajama bottoms. The caress was familiar and comforting, sending a wave of pleasure down to his toes and up his spine as he bit his lip.

He closed his eyes and let his mind wander. He tried to think of nothing, but he could not stop the vision of her that manifested itself in his mind, of the way she had looked when he had pulled away from her the night they had kissed. Her lips had been swollen, and there had been a shine to them that he had known he’d put there. It had been so satisfying to see the flush on her cheeks and the pleased expression in her eyes. 

Christ, she’d been so soft and warm in his arms as they had kissed, her skin burning hot against his fingertips as she’d let him pour every ounce of his desire for her into that kiss. And god, how he had wanted her. He wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted someone as badly as he had Hermione in that moment. He had ached to move his hands from her neck down to the hem of her jumper, to pull it up and peel it off of her and let his touch dance from the bare skin of her back to her sides and belly. He’d wanted so badly to push her back onto the couch, to settle over her and feel her breasts bare against him as his fingers wandered down…down to the top button of her jeans and the zipper which kept him from the one thing he knew he shouldn’t want, but couldn’t help imagining. 

Harry groaned as he tugged at his pants, pulling them down and letting his hand wrap around the aching, straining part of him that wanted so badly to feel her. With his eyes shut, he could imagine that it was  _ her _ hand on him, stroking his shaft and causing that exciting, all consuming friction that drove him higher and higher toward his peak. He could see her leaning in to kiss him, feel her mouth on his, her tongue sweeping between his teeth as she moaned and guided him between her thighs. She was completely bare, and he thrilled at the thought, his cock throbbing in his grasp as he bit his lip and imagined the way she would feel against his palm, hot and slick. 

He came with the vision of her naked in front of him, her hair a curling mantle barely brushing the tips of her nipples as he smiled. 

“Hermione!” his voice rang hoarse and desperate in the once silent room. 

When he was through, his eyes were heavy, and his hand was coated in the evidence of his deviancy. Harry groaned again, this time in frustration. 

Shit. He didn’t have a right to be thinking of Hermione while he was doing  _ that _ . Harry had been the one to insist that any involvement between them that exceeded the bounds of mere friendship would be a bad idea. It had been he who had kissed her almost senseless and then, like a bloody coward, pretended that it hadn’t been one of the best goddamned things to happen to him in his whole pathetic life. He had been the one to cause that look of disappointment to bloom on her face when he had told her that he valued her friendship more than the sensuality she had gifted him with minutes before. 

No, he didn’t have a right to touch himself and think of  _ her _ , laying on her four poster bed at Hogwarts, her smooth, tanned legs slightly parted and her skirt pulled up to her waist as she bit her lip and invited him to join her. She wasn’t his, and he’d blown all chance of her ever being his when he had decided that it wouldn’t be a good idea to continue what they had started in his drawing room. 

What an idiotic prat he had been. He couldn’t think of a better idea than kissing her in any room of his house. Maybe even here on his bed. Her hair would look almost golden against the dark blue of his quilt, he was sure of it. 

“Goddammit.” He swore and rolled onto his side, pushing himself up and out of the bed as he made his way to the bathroom to clean himself. When he entered and saw the massive clawfoot tub, and his first thought was of Hermione lounging there, the tops of her breasts peeking out of the water as she beckoned to him, he knew he was well and truly fucked. 

  
  



	18. Chapter 18

Kings Cross Station 

12 December 1998

Hermione took her time collecting her things once the Hogwarts Express had pulled to a standstill beside platform nine and three-quarters. She could not reasonably explain the tight knot in the pit of her stomach at the thought of seeing Harry waiting for her once she managed to disembark, other than to say that she was still not sure exactly where their relationship stood. Logic would have her believe that when Harry had invited her to stay with him over the Christmas holiday, it was with the understanding that their kiss had been a one time event, not to be repeated. The rational part of Hermione’s brain understood this, and even agreed with it, but the heart beating violently in her chest seemed to have other ideas. 

Her hand resting on the bag she had packed and stored above her seat, Hermione closed her eyes and tried hard to collect herself. It took several shaky breaths before she managed to slow her heartbeat and regain the ability to move without both excitement and dread bogging her down simultaneously. 

“All ready?” 

Neville peeked in from the corridor outside the car, his dark brown coat already buttoned and his Gryffindor scarf wrapped over his shoulders. Hermione gave him a smile. 

“Just about,” she said, pulling down her bag and rummaging through it until she found her own scarf, which she then wrapped around her neck. 

Neville had been a brilliant companion on the ride from Hogwarts to London. They had played Exploding Snap and discussed Herbology’s many merits and the possibility of apprenticeships for the both of them upon graduation. Professor Sprout had already approached Neville with the offer of an apprenticeship that would lead to employment upon her retirement if he performed well—an opportunity that he was apparently considering deeply. Hermione herself had received no offers as of yet, but she also had no interest in continuing on at Hogwarts, and she was fairly certain all of her professors were aware of the fact. Her aspirations lay elsewhere; if she had her way, she would be at the forefront of expanding rights for sentient creatures in the Wizarding world and have house elves paid a living wage within a few years of graduation. 

“I saw Ginny with Nott,” said Neville as Hermione joined him in the narrow corridor. They began to move toward the exit together. “He was practically mauling her. He’s not invited to the Weasley’s with you lot, is he?”

Hermione patted him sympathetically on the shoulder as they went. “No,” she answered, “so you’ll have her all to yourself on Christmas.” 

The news seemed to cheer Neville somewhat, and he stood a bit taller. 

Hermione had been pleased when Molly had owled her to say that both Neville and his Gran were welcome to join them at the Burrow for Christmas dinner and that Hermione ought to invite them. Of course, she got the distinct impression that the invitation was extended because Molly was under the impression that the double date Hermione and Neville had gone on had been more of a success than it had been in reality, but Neville was her friend, and she would not correct the assumption at his expense. After all—though she knew he spent Christmas Day at Saint Mungo’s—a lively dinner party at the Weasley’s home was bound to be more exciting than the solitary meal he and Augusta Longbottom usually shared in the evening. 

When they stepped onto the platform, they both paused for a moment, scanning the sea of people bustling across the platform in search of those who had come to collect them. Hermione and Neville both were past the age of needing collecting, but both Augusta and The Weasleys had insisted. It was, they said, tradition. 

Hermione caught a flash of red hair out of the corner of her eye and turned to see Ginny kissing Theo Nott quite passionately in front of an uncomfortable looking Ron. 

“I think I might be sick,” said Neville from beside her, and she knew that he too had seen the display. 

Hermione took another few moments to see if she could spot anyone else she knew on the platform, and seeing no one, moved toward the two youngest Weasleys. Neville took his leave upon catching sight of his grandmother, who waved him over with her handbag and nodded grimly to Hermione in acknowledgement. Hermione gave him an understanding smile and told him she would see him in a few days. On her way toward where Ginny, Theo, and Ron stood, Hermione caught sight of Ruth, the little first year who she had met the last time she was on this platform. The girl was being embraced by her younger sister as their mother ushered them toward the barrier between platform nine and three-quarters and the rest of King’s Cross Station. Hermione smiled and waved at the little Slytherin girl, who responded enthusiastically before disappearing from sight. 

“Hermione, over here!” 

She had been spotted. Ginny was motioning for her to join them where they stood beside the scarlet steam engine, Theo still glued to her side. Ron stared down at the scuffed black boots he wore beneath a proper Auror’s uniform. The trademark, high-necked crimson jacket was buttoned on the side, and the gold embroidery of the Ministry logo stood out in stark contrast over his left breast. 

“Hello,” said Hermione, her eyes locked on Ron’s face, willing him to look up. 

He seemed to take a deep breath, but when he had finished, he met her gaze. His blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he gave her a nervous grin. 

“Hey.” 

They stood in silence for several moments before Ginny spoke. 

“Merlin, this is awkward, isn’t it?” She grabbed Theo by the arm and pulled him away. “Let’s leave them to it, shall we?”

Once the pair were out of earshot, Ron seemed to relax, the tension melting off of him as he bit his lip and his ears became marginally less red. 

“I wasn’t expecting you.” Hermione broke the uncomfortable silence and shifted her bag from one hand to the other. Ron caught the movement and reached forward. 

“Here, let me,” he said. Hermione let him, studying his expression as he hefted the thing over his shoulder. 

“You look like you’re doing well, Ron.” And he did. His shoulders were more broad than she remembered, his clean-shaven face more angular. Working as an Auror seemed to suit him. 

“I am. I mean, it’s great. The schedule’s a bitch most of the time, but it’s worth it.” She could see the satisfaction in his face, could tell that he was happy with the work he did. 

“I’m glad.” She looked back down, unsure of what else to say. They had not separated in anger, but the silence between them these past four months had done little to help them regain the easy friendship they had once enjoyed.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Ron said at last, staring at his boots again. “I’ve been a prat. I should have written, instead of just ignoring you. And it was bloody awful of me to ignore your birthday like I did.” 

Hermione reached out and grabbed Ron’s hand impulsively, squeezing it tightly as she peered up and caught his eye. He smiled self consciously. 

“You haven’t done anything wrong here,” she said, painful though it was to admit. “It’s alright you needed time apart. It’s weird, going from the way we were, back to being just friends… but I do hope we can be. I miss you, Ron.” 

“Yeah,” he said, sniffing and blinking rapidly before squeezing her hand in return. “That’d be good.” 

They held hands for only a few seconds more before releasing one another simultaneously and each taking a short step back. 

“I really missed you too. Harry’s great, but the lad can be a bit woe is me, can’t he?” 

Hermione laughed and agreed. 

“Speaking of Harry, I was expecting him to be here too,” she said, hoping that she didn’t sound  _ too _ curious. 

“He was going to,” Ron explained. “Had the kid packed up in that weird sash and everything. He stayed behind though, when I told him I wanted a chance to talk to you before the hordes descended.” 

“That was kind of him.” 

“Yeah.” Another awkward pause. “So. You and Neville?”

Hermione’s brows nearly met her hairline as she shook her head vigorously. 

“No,” she said. “Absolutely not. Neville’s my friend, and if your sister and her boyfriend hadn’t roped us into a double date, this rumor wouldn’t even exist.” 

“I thought you two hit it off.” Ginny had apparently returned, this time alone. She looked more relaxed now than she had in Theo’s presence, as if she were no longer playacting the dainty princess. 

“You were too busy making moon eyes to think anything,” Hermione commented dryly. 

“Where’s Nott?” asked Ron, looking over his sister’s shoulder for the dark haired Slytherin. 

“ _ Theo _ is with his aunt. They’ve gone home.” 

“Good riddance,” said Ron. 

“Don’t be a prat, Ronald Weasley. I swear to Circe, I’ll hex you straight into the pavement.” And by the look on Ginny’s face, Hermione was sure that she meant it. “What are you doing here anyway? Couldn’t mum take the time to collect her only daughter?” 

“I had the lunch hour off for once,” Ron shrugged. “I was home, and Mum was busy chatting up Andromeda.” 

“Has she been a good influence?” 

“Terrible. They both cluck like hens anytime someone younger is about.” 

Hermione laughed, and Ginny rolled her eyes. 

“Typical,” said the redhead. 

“Shall we?” asked Hermione, who had begun to notice that the platform was growing steadily less crowded. Here and there, witches and wizards disappeared from view with a pop. 

“Yeah,” said Ron. He held out an arm to Ginny. 

“I can Apparate myself,” she said, wrinkling her nose. 

“Mum said that—”

But before Ron could finish his sentence, Ginny had popped out of view. 

“Dammit,” swore Ron. “I’m the one who’s never going to hear the end of that.” 

Hermione smiled at him and shrugged. They were alone again, and she felt the familiar pull of camaraderie between them, something she had missed these past few months, almost as much as she had missed seeing Harry and Delphi. She was reminded that it had never been just two of them before, not when she and Ron had been a couple, and not now that there were feelings blooming within her for the dark haired friend she had always relied on the most. It would  _ always _ be the three of them. Perhaps not every second of each day, but if she ever lost Ron’s friendship, she knew she would be poorer for it. 

“I’m glad it was you who came,” she said, meeting Ron’s blue-eyed gaze and attempting to pour the things she was feeling into the silent exchange. 

Ron nodded, his smile genuine as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and tucked her into his side for a moment. 

“Yeah, me too.” 

They Disapparated without another word, everything that needed saying having been said, and the warm glow of friendship melting the ice which had formed an invisible wall between them. 

OoOoOoOoO

The Burrow

12 December 1998

Harry sat cross legged on the grass, Delphi on his lap as she babbled and pointed up toward the sky and several birds flying overhead. 

“That’s right, birdies,” he replied, and she laughed in apparent delight. 

“Birdie,” she repeated. “Tweet, tweet.” And then she climbed to stand on his legs, pulling herself up over her shoulders so that she could watch the birds disappear from view behind him. “Bye-bye, birdie!” 

Harry held her steady as she balanced on him, and when she was through, he turned her round to play in the grass again. Before she had been distracted by the birds flying overhead, she had been spotting garden gnomes and pointing them out to him.

A loud crack rent the air, and Harry looked up, his grip on Delphi tightening. When he saw Ginny appear in the garden he smiled and patted Delphi on the back. 

Ginny paused as she caught sight of them, seeming to stiffen for just a moment before she made her way forward. 

“Hello, Harry,” she said as she approached him. She crossed her arms when she stopped several feet away. 

“Hi,” he replied. “How was the train?”

“Oh, you know, same as ever. What are you doing out here?” She tossed her long red hair over her shoulder as she spoke, the strap of her bag which was perched there, now completely obscured. 

“Er, your mum invited us. Should I not have—”

“No, silly,” said Ginny, smiling now, “I meant, ‘what are you doing sitting out here?’ I know for a fact mum has at least three serviceable chairs inside.” 

Harry felt relief course through him. He had worried that Ginny would be upset at his presence, and while he still wasn’t sure she wasn’t, she was at least not shouting at him to leave. 

“Delphi was getting a little rambunctious inside. I thought some time outdoors would do her good.” The girl in question was sitting firmly on Harry’s lap again, pressing her cheek to his chest as she clung to his arm and watched Ginny speculatively. 

“Doesn’t look that wild to me,” Ginny said, and she crouched down to be on Delphi’s level. “Bit shy of strangers, love?” she asked the girl. 

Delphi turned away, pressing her opposite cheek against Harry and hiding her face in the process. 

“Sorry,” said Harry, who began to pat the little girl’s back. 

“Don’t apologize,” said Ginny, who was smiling somewhat sadly now. “I’m sure she’ll warm up to me in time. I’ll be aunt Ginny before long.” And with that she stood. 

“See you inside, Harry,” she said, and made her way into the house. When she was gone, Harry peeled Delphi away from him and looked her in the eye. 

“You’re not going to do that with Hermione, are you?” he asked. 

Delphi smiled. “My,” she answered. 

Before long, another pop sounded, and two figures appeared by the front gate. The larger of the two had their arm wrapped around the other’s shoulders, and the smaller was leaning into his side. Harry felt a sharp stab of jealousy when he realized it was Hermione next to Ron, and that she looked quite comfortable there. 

“Harry!” She spotted him almost immediately and pulled away from Ron to dart forward as Harry stood, Delphi balanced on his hip. Hermione wrapped her arms around the both of them as soon as she reached their sides, and Harry heard Delphi give an excited little squeal. 

“My!” 

“Delphi! Oh, sweet girl!” Before Harry had a chance to do much more than stand there looking stupid, Hermione had relieved him of the toddler and was holding her close as the little girl laid her head of black curls on Hermione’s shoulder, content. 

“Oh, I’ve missed you so much,” Hermione crooned. Behind her, Ron finally caught up and stared down at the pair, amused. 

“Merlin, you’d think she’d come home from the war, not school,” he said in amusement. Harry laughed, but he could not help but feel his heart swell at the sight. “I’ll just leave you lot to your reunion,” Ron continued, “I’ve got to go get my arse handed to me by mum. Wish she’d never had a girl sometimes.” And then he was off the same way Ginny had gone. 

Harry watched for several more seconds as Hermione cuddled her goddaughter, noting the smiles on their faces and the way Delphi’s hand seemed automatically to twine in Hermione’s wildly curling hair. 

“Is it my turn yet?” He asked at last. Without looking at him, Hermione held out one arm, beckoning for him to join her and Delphi in their embrace. He did not hesitate, wrapping one arm over his daughter, and the other around Hermione’s waist as he buried his face in her hair. He could smell the subtle hint of jasmine in her locks. 

“Glad you’re back,” he said, and he was rewarded with a mouth full of curls. 

“Me too.” Her voice was slightly muffled against his shoulder, but he thrilled at her words all the same. 

When at last they separated, it was because Delphi began to squirm. Hermione laughed, letting the girl down to stand in the grass and tug at her jeans. 

“Hogwarts Express alright?” asked Harry.

Hermione nodded. “Neville kept me company. It was good to just be able to sit and talk.” 

Harry felt another sharp stab of jealousy at the mention of Neville. He was reminded of the letter she had sent to him nearly a month ago now and still never satisfactorily explained. She had said they had gone on a  _ date _ . Later, she had told him that Ginny had invited them to go out with her and Theo, but she hadn’t said much more, and he had not been able to stop thinking of her smiling beside Neville Longbottom over a cup of horrid tea since then. 

“How’s the boyfriend?” Harry asked, perhaps a bit too venomously. Hermione shot him an odd look and nudged him in the arm with her elbow. 

“ _ Not _ my boyfriend,” she said. 

“Oh,” said Harry lamely. “I wasn’t sure whether your date went well—or whether you’d only gone because of Ginny asking…” His voice trailed off as Hermione looked at him curiously. 

“Harry,” she said, speaking slowly as if there were a chance he might not understand. “I thought I explained. Neville and I only went out because Ginny wanted a second set on her date. We went as friends. We left as friends too.” 

Harry let out a breath he had not known he had been holding and smiled. 

“Oh. Good. I mean, not that it would have been bad if you’d been dating. You’re welcome to date. I mean, who wouldn’t want to date you?” He was rambling, and he hated himself for it. 

“I can think of one person,” she said mildly, and leaned down to take a flower Delphi had picked and was offering to her. 

Harry felt a twinge of guilt despite himself. 

“Should we go in?” Hermione asked, leaning to the side and taking Delphi’s small hand in her own as the girl seemed to lead her forward toward the house.

“Yeah,” said Harry, and he followed them in. 

The Burrow was lively as ever when they entered, and as its occupants caught sight of Hermione, they all seemed to call out in excitement. Harry was pleased to see that there did not seem to be any lingering awkwardness between her and the Weasley family. Even George, who did not say much these days, seemed pleased to see her and placed an arm over her shoulder as he greeted her. 

They all chatted for several minutes before Ron emerged somewhat sheepishly from the kitchen, his cheeks red as they often where after a run in with his mother. 

“She says dinners ready,” he mumbled, and then disappeared back from whence he had come. 

Hermione, George, Bill and Fleur, Percy, Ginny, and Andromeda—with Teddy on her hip—all made their way into the kitchen. Harry followed with Delphi, pleased to see that a chair had been left empty beside Hermione for him. He took it and watched as Mrs Weasley sent platters of food floating through the air and onto the table. 

It was a cheerful supper, and as they all devoured the meal, the conversation seemed to lull. Even the children were more quiet as they eyed the trifle which dominated the center of the table. By the end of the evening they were all over-full and patting their stomachs in satisfaction, especially Fleur, whose pregnancy was looking more advanced now to Harry’s untrained eye. 

Shortly thereafter, everyone retired to the sitting room to share coffee and firewhisky, something Molly could no longer disapprove of now that even her youngest child was legally an adult. Hermione insisted on staying behind to tidy the kitchen, and when Molly finally agreed, Harry offered to stay and help. When Ron gave him an odd look, Harry told himself he had only volunteered to keep Hermione from having to do the dishes alone; he certainly hadn’t done so to spend time alone with her... had he? 

Hermione washed, and Harry rinsed. Soft voices came from the other room, muffled by the closed door between them, and as the stack of dishes dwindled, Harry felt something inside of him begin to swell, a fragile bubble growing wider and stronger the longer he tried to ignore it. He stole a glance in Hermione’s direction. Her hair was tucked behind her ear, and the long strands were wet at the tips where they had dipped into the water as she had leaned across it. He could see the few light freckles dancing across the top of her cheek and the bridge of her nose. Her lips were plump, and as her tongue darted out to moisten them, he felt the sudden urge to lean forward and kiss her.

_ No _ , he thought. He wouldn’t do it. She had only just returned for the holiday, and as certain as he now was that he had made a mistake when he had turned her away on Halloween, he was almost equally as certain that kissing her now, here in the Weasley’s kitchen, would be a mistake. Ginny and Ron were both a room away, his daughter was in the arms of the woman who might have been his mother-in-law. If anyone were to find them…

“What?” Hermione was looking at him now, her gaze quizzical, and Harry forced a smile. 

“Nothing,” he said. “Just admiring the view.” 

She blushed and looked down at her hands, still submerged in sudsy water. 

_ Shit _ , he thought.  _ Too much _ . 

“Harry—”

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, drying a dish furiously as he felt his own cheeks begin to burn. “I just—Shit.” 

“Harry.” Her voice was gentle, and he looked up to meet her amber gaze. “I’m not offended,” she said. 

“I’m sorry,” he said again, not knowing what else he could possibly say. It wasn’t as if he could take back the words, or even as if he wanted to. 

“Are you?” she asked? She stared at him, biting her lip with perfect white teeth. He had a sudden vision of the girl she had been when they had met: overlarge front teeth, frizzy hair, and no curves. He couldn’t help but think that she had been lovely even then. 

“No, not really,” he answered. 

“Harry…” she seemed to struggle with what to say as she slowly washed another plate. She handed it to him and he took it, running it under the slow trickle of the faucet. At last, she looked up. “I like you,” she said, and his heart thrilled. “I like you a lot, probably more than I should.” 

“I like you too,” he admitted, and for once, he did not feel embarrassed or nervous about it. 

“I don’t mean just as a friend,” she clarified, and God, he could have sung. 

“No, me either.” 

She smiled then, a lovely, brilliant smile than he felt down to his toes. Christ, he wanted to kiss her. 

“Good,” she said, and she was still grinning as she turned back to the dishes, scrubbing at a large pot. She bit her lip, and Harry ached to do the same. 

“Maybe,” she continued, “we just go with it. Maybe we stop being afraid of ruining anything, and just like each other.” 

He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than just like her, but Harry nodded all the same, a brilliant, glowing feeling having settled in the middle of his chest. 

“Okay,” he agreed. “I’d like that.” 

She looked up at him then, and her smile was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. 

“Good,” she said. 

“Great,” he echoed. 

They finished the dishes in silence, and when they were done they gripped one another’s hands tightly, just for a moment. Harry marveled at how delicate she felt in his grasp, at how fiercely the simple touch seemed to ignite his desire. 

“See you in there,” she said softly, and her eyes were shining as she looked up at him before disappearing into the sitting room. 

Harry grinned like a fool and followed her. 

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place

24 December 2017

Christmas Eve was the most idyllic in Harry’s memory. He had never had a family for Christmas before—at least not since he had been Delphi’s age—and though he knew that she would not remember the holiday when she was grown, he could not help but want to pour all of the excitement he felt into the preparations. They had, of course, been invited to the Weasley’s house for both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, but Harry had politely declined all but the invitation to Christmas dinner. He felt strongly that despite his connection with the Weasleys, that he wanted to develop at least some traditions with Delphi alone. Christmas Eve, he had decided, would be their time alone, as a family. Of course, Hermione too was invited. As Delphi’s godmother, it was only proper. 

The morning was spent outdoors. The three of them went to a park and then shopping on Oxford Street. Hermione disappeared for a while and came back with several bags with tissue paper sticking out of the tops, proclaiming that she was finally done with her Christmas gifts and that she would need to spend a great deal of time wrapping that night, which was fine by Harry, who had himself procrastinated the task. 

That evening, they had gone home and prepared dinner together, taking it in turns to mind Delphi as she tried time and again to open the oven. Harry had eventually had to use an Auror level ward to box the girl into the safe half of the kitchen with her mountain of stuffed animals. Still, she had protested vehemently until Hermione had given up and dismantled the ward (Harry had been disconcerted by how quickly she had accomplished the task) and rescued her. 

After dinner, Hermione had read Delphi something by Dickens, and Harry had taken her up to her crib. She had been limp in his arms as she had drifted to sleep. He had spent several minutes, after he was sure she was sleeping, conjuring a snowfall above her bed, which disappeared upon meeting the preexisting climate charms which surrounded her. He thought she was like to see it when she woke. 

Now, sitting in the kitchen with their feet propped on the table, Harry and Hermione nursed identical mugs of steaming hot cocoa, generously topped with marshmallows and a sprinkling of nutmeg. 

“I don’t know how you do it, Harry,” Hermione said. “I’m honestly surprised all of your meals aren’t takeout at this point. She seems really dedicated to burning herself on that damned stove.” 

“Who says they’re not?” Harry took a sip of his drink, coming away with melted marshmallow on his beard. 

“I saw the leftovers in the fridge,” she answered. “I assumed some of them had to be yours.” 

“Negative. Molly and Andromeda keep me in more food than we could eat in a month. I have to throw out half the stuff because it goes bad on the bottom shelf.” 

“Harry, you don’t! That’s so wasteful!” 

“Come on, who’s going to eat month old lasagna?”

Hermione made a tsking noise with a smirk, and Harry took his feet off of the table, leaning forward as he set his mug down. 

“How about these presents then,” he said, motioning to the pile of things covering a great deal of the massive table. “Are you going to help me, or will I be up all night playing Father Christmas?”

“I ought to leave you to it,” Hermione teased. “It would serve you right for spoiling Delphi so. How many are there?” 

“I lost count, to be honest,” Harry admitted. He’d enjoyed buying things for Delphi, and the seemingly endless pile of gold in his vault did not lend itself to self control. Since he had begun to deposit his new salary into the account at Gringotts, he had been assigned a financial advisor, a goblin named Kashek, who prided herself on her investing acumen. Since meeting with the Goblin for the first time, Harry had learned that not only was he the owner of the contents of his parent’s old vault but also the inheritor or all the accumulated Black family wealth, a princely sum that had floored him when he had heard it. Add to that the ruins of the cottage in Godric’s Hollow, the Potter estate he had not even known existed (now in complete disrepair), the Black family seat in Derbyshire, Grimmauld Place, and the mountains of ever increasing stock he owned in both Wizarding and Muggle companies… well, he wasn’t sure what the Malfoy’s wealth amounted to, but he would wager all four of his properties that he could best it. It was an odd feeling for a man who had grown up wearing ill fitting hand-me-downs and eating only what the Dursley’s didn’t want.

Hermione laughed and Harry looked up at the sounds, smiling. 

“You start at that end,” she ordered, levitating an ancient looking pair of scissors and a roll of Spello-tape with her wand. 

Harry obeyed, grabbing a wooden puzzle off of the stack of gifts and using his wand to manipulate the wrapping paper and tape in the air. The finished product came out looking a bit like it had been in one of Hagrid’s coat pockets, but it was covered, and Harry supposed that was what mattered. It wasn’t until her set it down beside Hermione’s freshly wrapped and perfectly creased music box that he realized he had done a truly terrible job. 

“A little more flourish,” Hermione suggested, showing him the proper wand movement to accompany the spell. Harry imitated her and was not surprised when his second package came out looking much better than the first. 

With help, and with magic, Harry found that the wrapping took only ten minutes, and when they were done, they levitated the parcels ahead of them as they traipsed up the stairs and toward the drawing room. The room had been decorated spectacularly, something for which he had Hermione to thank. A massive tree dominated the wall where the tapestry hung, and the air was filled with floating garlands, wreaths, and baubles. They guided the present beneath the tree, and Harry was satisfied to see that they spilled out from beneath it generously. 

“Well, I think she’s going to have quite a morning,” Hermione mused, “and that you’re going to have your hands full cleaning up for her from now on.” 

“Thank god for magic,” said Harry, and then they both sat on the sofa side by side, leaning back to watch the fire crackling merrily in its grate. After a minute or so, Harry felt Hermione lean into him, and smiled. 

“Tell me about work,” she said after a while. “Are you looking forward to going back?”

Harry shrugged. “Yes. And no. I love it, but it means leaving Delphi. It’s the oddest feeling.” 

“She loves Andromeda, though,” Hermione reminded him. 

“Of course, and I’m glad. I thought it would be weird seeing them together at first, because--well, you know why.” He stopped, unable to bring himself to say it. 

“Because she’s her aunt?” 

“Because she looks so much like Bellatrix.” 

It was the first time he had said the woman’s name aloud since he had become Delphi’s father, and it was almost a relief to do so. He had spent so much time pretending that the woman had never existed, that his daughter would be nothing like her, that he had almost begun to fear mentioning her. It was stupid, he thought, he could not avoid thinking of her from time to time. No matter who she had been, the choices she had made… she would always be the woman he owed for his daughter’s life. 

“It’s like seeing her where she should have been,” Harry said, and his voice cracked despite himself. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter. Hermione placed her hand beneath his on the sofa between them. 

“She was never meant to be anywhere but with you,” said Hermione firmly. 

“Yeah. I know.” But she could have been. If he hadn’t been sitting in the drawing room at the exact moment her name had appeared on the tapestry, if none of them had been looking in the right direction… He shuddered to think where Delphi might have ended up. Would she have survived Euphemia Rowle? And if she had, would she have known the truth of her birth and sought revenge on the man responsible for all that had happened to her? Would she have been his enemy? 

“Look,” said Hermione, interrupting his thoughts as she turned on the sofa to face him, her knee pressing against his thigh as she sat with one leg beneath her. “I know that it’s tempting to wonder what might have been, but it doesn’t matter. She’s here, just upstairs, sleeping like an angel. You’re her dad, Harry, in every way that counts. She loves you, and you love her, and  _ that _ is what makes a family, not blood.”

“But if—” 

“Shut up,” Hermione ordered. “ _ You’re _ her father, not Riddle. No one can take that away from you. No one would dare. For one thing, you’re the Chosen One—” 

Harry snorted in response, and Hermione punched him lightly in the shoulder.

“For another, you’re brilliant at it. A person would have to be blind not see that.” 

Harry smiled, reaching up to rub his jaw as he spoke. 

“You’re good for my ego, you are,” he said. 

Hermione laughed and reached up to brush a lock of hair away from his eye where it was hanging. He needed a haircut badly, but every time he looked in the mirror and saw the untidy mess of black hair, he was reminded of Sirius and resolved that he would have it cut later. Now, however, with his return to Auror duty rapidly approaching, Harry was not sure whether he would even bother, especially if keeping it long meant Hermione would touch him again. 

Her hand moved from his fringe down the side of his face, her fingers combing through his beard before settling on his jaw. Her eyes were shining, and Harry felt his heart rate increase. He was reminded forcefully of the kiss they had shared on this very sofa. She had been so soft against him, all gentle peaks and valleys that burned hot in his arms. 

Should he kiss her again? Now? They had not done more than touch one another casually since their conversation at the Burrow. Things had been as they always were since then, comfortable and soothing. But now, with her hand still lingering at his jaw and her lips caught between her teeth, she seemed anything but soothing. Enticing, inflaming, arousing… yes, but not the gentle comfort he had relied on throughout his childhood. 

Merlin, he wanted to kiss her. 

He felt his eyes flutter shut as he placed a hand over hers on his face. His other arm reached out for her, wrapping around her waist and drawing her just a little nearer as he breathed in her scent. There was something different to it now, something more earthy and sensual. 

“Harry,” she said, and his cock twitched at the sound of his name on her lips. 

“Hermione.” 

He was going to kiss her now, could feel her warm breath as he leaned in and—and—and he froze. His hands were shaking and his eyes seemed to open of their own accord. She was staring up at him with curious brown irises, her lips slightly parted as she waited expectantly. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he felt as if he might throw up. What the hell was wrong with him? He wanted more than anything to kiss her, to run his hands up her back as he snogged the breath out of her. His stomach was doing somersaults, and he ached to press his lips to hers and silence every doubt that was making him hesitate. 

What if he kissed her now and lost her, just like he had lost every other person who had ever been important to him? What if he did something wrong and drove her away?

“It’s okay, really,” she said, and she disengaged herself from him, refusing to look him in the eye now as she stared down at her lap. “I’m actually pretty tired.” 

And before he could protest or think of something to say that would salvage the situation, she was out of her seat and heading through the door. He watched her go, and his heart seemed to ache. 

OoOoOoOoOoO

Hermione was as self conscious as the next girl, a fact that irritated her to no end. She  _ knew  _ she was smart, and, though she was not as lovely as Fleur and her veela cousins, she was not altogether unfortunate to look at. Not that looks mattered, or  _ should _ matter. And yet despite the sure knowledge that she was an intelligent, attractive, and well mannered young woman, she could not help but fall prey to the same insecurities and, on occasion, vanities, which seemed to plague the young women of her generation. She had spent nearly three quarters of an hour choosing her outfit that morning and had only settled upon the midnight blue jumper because she knew Harry liked the color. It was, frankly, embarrassing. 

Still, as silly as she felt basing her outfit choices off of what she thought a man might like, it was nothing compared to the horror she felt at being so ridiculously prone to tears. 

With an angry scowl, Hermione wiped at her eyes for the umpteenth time. The backs of her hands came away damp, and she felt another wave of frustration at her reaction. She had no  _ reason _ to cry. It wasn’t as if Harry owed her anything, certainly not a kiss. Had she been under the impression that they had decided to put aside their misgivings and pursue a more romantic relationship? Certainly. But Harry was entitled to his own mind, and if that meant that he had  _ changed  _ his mind… well, she would have to deal with it. She was not one of those silly Hogwarts girls who thought they were owed a man’s attention just by virtue of having a pair of breasts and a winning smile. 

Of course, knowing that Harry was entitled to keep his lips to himself did not make her feel any better. 

She had thought things were going well. God, he had been sitting there, his arm around her, his hand keeping her palm pressed to his face. She had watched his eyes flutter shut as he leaned toward her. She could have sworn she’d seen him breathe in deeply just as her own eyes had closed and she had leaned into what she had expected would be a repeat of the glorious kiss they had shared at Halloween. 

What on earth had stopped him? Was it more of the same worries that had put an end to their last encounter? Did he still fear damaging their friendship, despite what they had, together, decided? Or was it worse? Had he gotten close and realized that he didn’t want to kiss her after all? That her hair was too frizzy, her teeth too large, or her face not as pretty as his previous girlfriend’s? 

Hermione felt another tear escape down her cheek and made a frustrated noise as she dabbed at it with the cuff of her sleeve. What was wrong with her? If something had put Harry off, it was most likely something she had said or done. Could it have been her reference to Riddle? She knew that he was sensitive about Delphi’s heritage, but  _ he _ had been the one to mention Bellatrix first. Surely he hadn’t been upset by her use of Voldemort’s given name? Harry had, after all, been the one to insist on calling the monster by it. 

Hermione sighed and sniffled, cursing her tear ducts as she blinked rapidly. 

Merlin, she’d really messed things up. She shouldn’t have been so forward. She’d pushed him too soon. It had only been days ago that he had admitted to her that he liked her as more than just a friend. They were still trying figure out what that meant for the two of them. 

“Jesus Christ,” she swore, standing and grabbing a tissue off of the desk in her bedroom. She sounded like a teenager. Granted, she  _ was _ a teenager, but she had fought and lived through a war, and that ought to count for something. She shouldn’t be sitting here dissecting her interactions with Harry and obsessing over whether she had said the wrong thing or not. 

She was a witch of infinite worth, and if Harry was having trouble seeing that, it was his problem, not hers. She would continue on with her life, despite this dull ache that had taken up residence in her chest. She didn’t need the acceptance of a man to feel worthwhile. She was Hermione bloody Granger, and she was proud of everything she had and would yet accomplish. 

But god, she wanted Harry. She wanted him to wrap his arms around her waist again and  _ kiss _ her. She wanted to feel him pressed close to her, with his hands tangled in her hair as his lips worked to show her exactly what she had been missing since Halloween. She wanted it all. Desperately. 

And yet here she stood, her face streaked with tears, her hair a mess as she blew her nose and contemplated Disapparating and sleeping in the tent she still carried in her beaded bag. She would have considered it more seriously if it weren’t for Delphi. She couldn’t bring herself to leave for her own pride when the little girl she loved so much would be expecting her on Christmas morning. She only had a short while to be here and to see her goddaughter before Hermione had to go back to Hogwarts to finish out the year. What had she been thinking, going back in the first place? Was the fact that she was a student still what was keeping Harry from wanting to be with her? Didn’t it matter that she was nearly a full year older than him? That she loved him, and loved Delphi so much she knew she would cry when she had to leave them again? 

She gave another shuddering sigh and finished wiping at her face. Enough, she thought. Dwelling on the issue would do nothing to solve it. There was no guarantee it  _ could  _ be solved. 

Hermione pulled off her jumper, tossing it into the corner where she had been piling her laundry, and then began to unbutton her jeans. When she was fully undressed, she pulled on the simple, thin strapped nightgown she wore to sleep in. She spent several minutes after that going about her nightly routine in the ensuite bathroom. Finally, when her teeth were brushed, her hair combed and tossed into a high bun, and her face freshly washed, Hermione felt a little better. Whatever it was that had changed Harry’s mind, she could do nothing about it tonight. All that was left to her was to get a good night’s rest and wake up in the morning refreshed… and less bitter. She would go downstairs when she heard Delphi wake, and prepare breakfast before suggesting they open their gifts. She would be calm, collected, and pleasant. 

She climbed into her bed, a double with an ornate headboard and bed posts on each corner. She tried hard not to look at the carvings there, as the few she had seen had been a bit disturbing. It was the consequence of staying in a house which had once been a bastion of pureblood supremacy. 

She lay there for nearly half an hour, tossing and turning beneath the covers until at last she threw back her sheets, drew her wand, and cast a Cooling Charm on the area around her. Comfortable at last, Hermione sprawled out on her stomach, her nightgown high on her thighs as she held one of her pillows against her and drifted off to sleep. 

When she awoke, she was disoriented. Her room was still dark but for the faint light which filtered in through the window from the street below, but something had roused her, she was sure of it. A creaking floorboard from behind made her freeze, her eyes still shut as she listened intently. A soft, barefoot step followed, and Hermione reached beneath her bellow, grabbing her wand and rolling onto her back in one fluid motion as she aimed toward the door and shouted, “ _ Stupefy! _ ” 

“ _ Protego! _ ” 

Hermione saw Harry in the flash that accompanied her spell and his shield. She gasped as the two collided, and her Stunning Spell ricocheted back toward her. She rolled instinctively again, scrambling to sit up by the wall to avoid being stunned. 

“Sorry!” Harry said, dropping his hand (the Shielding Spell had apparently been wandless) and rushing toward her. “God, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you!” 

“What the bloody hell are you doing!?” Her voice was shrill and her heartbeat erratic as she pressed a palm to her chest. 

“Merlin, I’m so sorry,” Harry said, sinking onto the bed beside her, his expression equal parts concern and regret. “I didn’t think.” 

“What did you want, Harry?” she asked, her pulse finally slowing. She thought she sounded cross, and why not, after the embarrassment of the evening? 

“I—” he hesitated, but then frowned and seemed to come to some sort of conclusion. “I needed to see you,” he said. His voice was lower now, deeper somehow, and the sound of it sent a small thrill down her spine. She bit her lip. 

“It couldn’t wait until morning?” 

He met her gaze. She could barely see him in the darkness, but she caught the glint in his eye and the small upturn at the corner of her mouth before he shook his head. 

“No,” he said. And then, “Hermione?”

“Yes?” 

He didn’t answer, only leaned in toward her, one hand wrapping around to touch the back of her neck as his lips pressed desperately against hers. 

It was like an explosion. His kiss was hot against her mouth, his lips talented and pliant as he drew her closer. Her pulse was racing wildly now, and her chest was rising and falling rapidly as she wound one arm around his chest and pulled him closer with the same fervor he had exhibited. She could feel his back beneath her hand, bare and smooth as she pressed her breasts to his chest through the thin cotton of her nightgown. 

She moaned, and he kissed her more desperately in response, his tongue sweeping into her mouth before his teeth grazed her lip. 

When he finally broke the kiss she was practically panting, her breaths shaky as she clung to him, sinking into his embrace as he peppered her cheeks, jawline, and lips with kisses. She wanted more. 

This time, she was the one to press her mouth to his, leaning backward and drawing him down to lie beside her as she pressed her palm to his cheek and his free hand began to brush up and down the side of her ribs, making her shiver. 

They stayed there for several more minutes, kissing languorously and pausing every now and again to lie still, their cheeks pressed together as they struggled to keep their breathing under control. Finally, when the heat and the desperation between them was making her want to peel off her thin gown and press herself completely against him, Harry pulled away. Hermione whimpered at the loss, and he smiled as he cradled her face, running his thumb over her lower lip. 

“You’re amazing,” he said, and if it had been possible to melt into his embrace completely, she would have. “I should probably go, though.”

No!  _ No _ ! She thought, but he was already sitting up, his pajama bottoms slung low on his hips. She could see the evidence of his arousal there, and she blushed. He stood, looking back at her with a nervous smile. 

“Was that— I mean… is this okay?” He asked. 

Despite herself, Hermione laughed. 

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, joy bubbling up within her. “Yes, Harry, this is okay.” 

“Good,” he grinned, and then leaned in capture her lips with his once more. After a only a few moments—not nearly enough time, in Hermione’s opinion—he pulled away, still smiling as he squeezed her hand and seemed to force himself away from the bed and the scantily dressed witch atop it.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione,” he said when he reached the door. 

“Happy Christmas,” she returned, and then he disappeared from view. 

She listened as he padded across the landing and down the steps, until she could hear a door opening and closing on the floor below. She sighed, sinking back into her bed with a giddy breath. She didn’t bother to try and contain the radiant grin blooming across her face, only clutched her pillow tightly to her chest and laughed aloud. 

He’d kissed her, and it had been everything she’d imagined. He’d kissed her, and she hadn’t done anything wrong after all. He’d kissed her… and she wanted him to do it again.

  
  



	20. Chapter 20

_ The Burrow _

_ 25 December 2017 _

The Burrow was crowded on Christmas day. The whole Weasley clan and their various adoptees had gathered, and as Hermione sat quietly on one of the sofas in the living room, she took pleasure in watching them all exchange gifts. Fleur—whose pregnancy had finally begun to show—had been confined to the sofa beside Hermione by Molly, who had taken it upon herself to pamper her daughter-in-law whether the girl wanted it or not. 

“This one is yours, is it not?” The silvery blonde asked Hermione. Her accent was thick as she handed over a parcel, poorly wrapped in festive paper that was covered with tiny twinkling wreaths. Hermione took it and checked the label. 

“It’s from Ron,” she said, pleasantly surprised. She looked up in time to see Ron waving at her from the other side of the room, his blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. The noise level in the room was so loud she doubted he would hear her thanks, but she called it out all the same. He nodded and turned back to the pile of presents in his own lap. 

“What is it?” Fleur asked, having already opened her own gifts. 

Hermione tore the wrapping paper and withdrew a scarf. It was excessively long, and Hermione had no idea why Ron would have chosen a pastel to go with her coloring, but she wrapped it around her neck all the same. It was the thought that counted, after all. 

“That looks warm.” 

Hermione looked up again to see Angelina taking the free seat cushion between her and Fleur. 

“Not quite your color, but not bad. Did Ron give it to you?” The girl’s smile was warm as she reached out to touch the end of the scarf. “Ooh, soft too.” 

“Hello, Angelina,” Hermione said. “He did, and it’s good to see you.” 

“Yeah, you too,” Angelina said, leaning back in her seat. “Hello, Fleur.” 

“Angelina.” The veela’s tone was inscrutable, and Hermione spoke quickly to alleviate the awkward silence which threatened. 

“I’m glad you came with George,” Hermione said. “It’s been too long.” 

“Me too.” Angelina smiled. “After Fred I—" her smile faltered as Fleur cast her a sharp look. “Well. We all mourned. But then George started coming by for a chat and a pint. It’s been nice.” 

“Are you two…” Hermione let her voice trail off and cocked her head in question. 

“It’s complicated.” Angelina shrugged as Fleur sniffed audibly. 

“Goodness,” Hermione said to Fleur, her temper flaring. “It sounds as if you're getting sick. Let me find you a tissue.” She looped her arm through Angelina’s and stood, dragging the girl along with her. 

Fleur did not protest, and so Hermione dragged Angelina across the room to the sideboard which was heavy laden with food. 

“I’m sorry about her,” said Hermione.

“It’s fine, really. We knew it would be awkward, my having dated Fred… but I couldn’t let George come alone.” 

“I think you’re good for him,” Hermione said. "He doesn’t seem so alone anymore.” 

“We’re both alone,” Angelina corrected. “But now we’re in it together. It makes it more bearable.” 

They fell silent for a moment, letting the loud chatter of the other people in the room wash over them and each pouring themselves a drink. 

“How ‘bout you and Ron, then? Think he’ll propose?” 

Hermione choked on her pumpkin juice, responding between small coughs as Angelina patted her back. “I should hope not. We broke up before term.” 

“Merlin, George never said!” Angelina looked sheepish. “Sorry.”

“It was for the best,” said Hermione, her gaze finding Harry across the room and lingering as he chatted animatedly with Charlie. 

The girls chatted only a little longer before Angelina went to rejoin George near the fire, and Hermione found a tissue that she took back to Fleur, who looked a little embarrassed to receive it. Afterward, Hermione scanned the room for Delphi, finding her goddaughter in Molly’s arms near the kitchen door. The little girl was clutching a doll half her size that Molly had knitted painstakingly. 

“Are you finished with her?” Hermione asked with a smile as she approached the older woman. 

“Come now, Hermione,” said Andromeda, who stood beside Molly, Teddy cradled in one arm. Her dark, silver-streaked hair was pulled into a bun on top of her head, and her cheeks were rosy with mirth. “You know it’s almost impossible for a grandmother to tire of her little ones. I think you’d have better luck prying a tooth from a basilisk.” 

Hermione chuckled and patted Teddy’s head. His hair was black and sticking out at odd angles over his forehead. “Has Harry been holding his godson?” she asked, amused. 

Andromeda laughed and held the baby out for Hermione to take, which she did gladly. “He has, and the lad has no compunction whatsoever about telling the world who his favorite is. Just once I’d like for him to look like the woman who clothes and feeds him night and day.” 

Teddy blinked up at Hermione, his eyes a startlingly familiar shade of green. 

“Be nice to your granny,” she admonished the baby before dropping a little kiss on his forehead. Teddy cooed and as Hermione pulled away, she watched his hair morph from overly straight black to a brown and curling closely against his scalp. 

“My,” said Delphi, and Andromeda laughed, taking Teddy back in her arms and him against her hip. 

“My!” said Delphi, louder this time, and Molly handed her over to Hermione with an amused look. 

“She’s a jealous one,” the redheaded matron observed lightly. “Bill was the same. I don’t think he ever really warmed to Charlie until Percy came along.” 

“Well, lucky for you, little miss, there are no babies in my immediate future, only essays and exams.” Hermione stopped Delphi’s hand as she reached toward her hair, kissing the pudgy fingers before pulling her wand out of her pocket and casting a charm which piled her hair high on top of her head in an elegant top knot. She had learned the spell two days after arriving at Harry’s for the holiday, when it had become apparent that Delphi could not resist the lure of a fistful of curls. 

She chatted for a while longer with Molly as Andromeda left to fix a bottle for Teddy, who had begun to fuss. She mentioned the awkwardness when Angelina and Fleur had met, and Molly made a disapproving noise. 

“Fleur’s hormones are going wild at the moment; her emotions are running high. I imagine Bill mentioned Angelina and George had started seeing one another, and I’m sure she came to an unflattering conclusion.” 

“I don’t think think it’s like that—" Hermione began. 

“Of course not,” said Molly. “Angelina’s a dear girl, and I haven’t seen George smile so much since May.” 

Hermione followed the older woman’s gaze, watching as the son in question grinned at something Angelina whispered in his ear before taking her hand, squeezing it twice, and then releasing her. Angelina’s answering smile was nearly radiant. 

“My, Daddy!” Delphi scrambled excitedly in Hermione’s arms when she spotted Harry, wriggling like a cat as she tried to escape. Hermione set her down on her feet, and the girl toddled toward her father, reaching him at an ungainly run and wrapping her arms around his leg. 

Hermione excused herself to Molly before joining the girl. As she approached, she let her eyes scan over Harry. He was wearing the deep blue jumper Molly had gifted him earlier, and the color was quite handsome on him. Not that he needed a jumper to make him more attractive. His dark hair was longer than it had been in school, and curled just slightly at his collar, while his beard seemed to age him from teenager to man. Hermione felt herself begin to blush as she remembered the feel of that beard against her. 

“Hello, beautiful,” Harry said to his daughter as he bent down and lifted her into his arms. “Did Granny Weasley give you this?” He poked at the doll whose arm she still held tightly in her fist. 

“Granny,” echoed Delphi. 

Harry looked up at Hermione then, and she felt her stomach give an unsettling flutter. 

“Hey,” he said, and then paused, his eyes traveling from her face down to her toes and back up again. “Nice scarf.”

Hermione flushed. 

“It’s a gift from Ron,” she said, and though she couldn’t see herself, she was sure her blush was clashing brilliantly with the pale yellow of the accessory. 

“Merlin, he’s got poor taste,” said Charlie, who was standing at Harry’s side. “I think you’d be within your rights to burn the thing. It does nothing for you.” 

“Well,” said Hermione, pausing as she struggled to come up with something polite to say. “It does keep my neck warm.” 

“Burgeoning politician, you are,” Charlie laughed. 

“We could use politicians like her,” Harry said. 

“Well, no arguing that, is there?” Charlie agreed. “Kingsley’s having a hell of a time with the bastards sitting in the Wizengamot to hear him tell it.” 

“I’m not surprised,” Hermione said, “after the funding debacle in June. They couldn’t even pass a simple budgetary measure to finance the rebuilding of Hogwarts.” 

“Have you thought about taking your seat?” Charlie turned to face Harry again, and Harry cringed visibly. 

“I haven’t. They offered, but I’m not cut out for that sort of thing.” 

“It’s a pity you can’t give the Potter seat to Hermione,” said Charlie, his eyes glittering. 

“I’m sure the rest of the pureblood representatives would revolt if they had to sit next to a Muggleborn,” Hermione said. 

“That’s why they need someone like you,” Harry interjected. “They aren’t going to accept change until they’re forced to.” 

“Granny,” said Delphi, and then wriggled out of her father’s arms to dash back toward Molly, who was waving a piece of cake in the toddler’s direction. 

“Where’s she off to?” asked Ron, who came to stand beside Hermione, watching with a concerned expression as Delphi tore past him. 

“Your mum’s buying her love with sweets.” 

“Wish she’d buy my love,” said Ron.

Charlie reached over to smack Ron’s stomach, one eyebrow arched. “I’d say you get more than enough sweets. Is that a spare tire you’re lugging around?” 

“Shut it.” Ron glared down at Charlie, who was several inches shorter and far stockier than him. 

“Ooh, defensive. Have I touched a nerve?” 

“Charlie, you’re my brother, and I love you, but I will hex you.” 

“Thanks so much for the scarf, Ron,” Hermione interrupted before the two could move to fisticuffs. “It’s really soft.” 

Charlie snickered and Ron punched him in the shoulder, which only seemed to increase the elder brother’s mirth. 

“Welcome. Thanks for the chocolates too.” 

“Of course.” 

They fell silent, and Hermione watched as Harry shifted awkwardly on his feet, his expression a nauseating mix of amusement, anxiety, and guilt. 

“I’m looking forward to having you back at work, mate,” Ron said, not seeming to notice Harry’s discomfort. “What day do you start back again?” 

“The fourth.” 

“Right. That’s coming up quick, isn’t it?” Ron glanced over his shoulder at Delphi, who was perched in Molly’s arms and being fed bites of chocolate cake like a baby bird. “You got everything settled for Delphi?” 

“Andromeda’s going to be watching her again.” 

“That's great.” Ron replied before looking back at Hermione. “You looking forward to your last term?” 

Hermione nodded in answer but said nothing. 

“Well,” said Charlie, drawing the word out almost painfully. “I’m off before you lot bore me to death. Happy Christmas.” 

Once he had gone, the trio stood for a while longer in silence. 

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” said Hermione at last, “I need a drink. Are you two coming?” 

They followed her into the kitchen which was, for the moment, empty. Ron, who seemed to know what Hermione was about, crossed to a cupboard above the refrigerator, opening it and reaching toward the back of the topmost shelf. He had to stand on the balls of his feet, but when he came back down he was holding a bottle of firewhisky. Harry conjured three shot glasses, setting them on the kitchen counter and motioning for Ron to fill them. 

“Just the one for me,” Harry said after Ron had finished. “I’ve got Delphi still.” 

“How responsible of you, Harry,” Hermione said, her eyes twinkling now as she raised her glass and drained it. The drink burned on its way down, a hot, golden trickle down her throat and into her chest. She held the glass out to Ron again, and he raised his brow but said nothing as he filled it anew. 

“Now,” she said, once she had disposed of the second helping. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Have you?” Harry arched a brow in her direction, and Hermione grinned. 

“Quiet,” she ordered, her chest glowing pleasantly. 

“Your idea doesn’t involve us getting pissed, does it? Only I think my mum might murder me.” Ron was watching her warily now, and Hermione laughed. 

“Christ, no,” she answered. Both men looked relieved, and Hermione rolled her eyes as she continued. “I was just thinking that Charlie was right, we’ve become boring.” 

“Us? Never.” Harry’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, and Hermione fought the urge to grin back at him like a lovesick schoolgirl smelling Amortentia. 

“Really? Fought any basilisks lately, have you?” She turned her attention to Ron next. “Knocked out any mountain trolls?” 

“To be fair,” Ron interjected, “our standard for interesting might be slightly different from the general population’s.”

Harry nodded in agreement. 

“Be that as it may,” Hermione continued, “I think it might behoove the three of us to seek out a bit of adventure every now and again—"

“Merlin, Hermione. Harry and I are aurors now, I think we’ll be getting our fill of dangerous.” 

“I never said a word about danger,” said Hermione. “I believe the word I used was  _ adventure _ .” 

“Historically, they’ve meant the same thing in our little group.” Harry sounded amused as he spoke and Hermione made a face at him. 

“What I was thinking,” Hermione pressed on, as if neither of the two men had interrupted her, “was that we might benefit from a night on the town every now and again. Friendships are like brooms, you see: they require regular investment and maintenance. You forget to polish your broom handle once and it's not a big deal, but if you consistently neglect it…” she let her voice trail off for dramatic effect. 

“It begins to splinter?” Ron asked. 

“Exactly,” Hermione beamed. “It looses its integrity, and soon you're off shopping for another broomstick.” 

“And we’re the brooms in this scenario?” Harry asked, amused. 

“Obviously, Harry. Try to keep up.” 

“And a night on the town is broom polish?” 

“It’s not a perfect analogy,” she huffed, “But you get the point I’m sure.” 

“You want to be polished more consistently?” Ron’s voice was dry and even as he spoke, and Harry cracked a grin at once, meeting the redheads gaze before clapping a hand on his shoulder as they both burst into laughter. 

Hermione sighed and poured herself another drink, gulping it down as she waited for the other two to regain control of themselves. When at last they were quiet and wiping tears from the corners of their eyes, the pleasant glow Hermione had begun to feel had intensified. 

“Are you quite finished?” 

“Yeah,” said Harry, running a hand through his thick black hair. Hermione tried not to think about how her own hand would feel taking that same path. 

“Excellent,” she said, forcing herself to look at Ron instead. Unfortunately, he was giving her an odd sort of searching look, and she broke his gaze too, choosing to stare at the bottle of firewhisky longingly instead. Three shots was far more than her usual, and she would be a fool to go for another. 

“So, nights on the town,” Harry said. “Just the three of us?”

“Not necessarily. I’m sure significant others could be included, and other friends occasionally. But the point would be for the three of us to socialize, yes.” 

“And socializing… that’s the broom maintenance?” asked Ron. 

“Exactly,” answered Hermione, meeting his blue eyed gaze again with a smile. “We’re not all at school anymore. Or living in the same tent. We’re going to have to work at maintaining our friendship. That means creating more common memories and time for us to discuss our lives.” 

“Makes sense,” said Ron. “And in the spirit of broom maintenance—"

“Ron, honestly, it was a metaphor.” 

“I’ve asked someone out.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she felt a small twang of jealousy bubble up within her before stamping it back down as fleeting and inappropriate. 

“Good for you, mate,” Harry said, and Hermione found her voice again. 

“Wow, that's great,” she said, hoping she sounded enthusiastic. She really was happy for Ron, but there was an awkwardness surrounding the topic that she found hard to shake. “Anyone we know?” 

At her question, Ron blushed. 

“It’s not Luna, is it?” Harry asked, sounding curious. 

“Circe, no. Luna’s nice, but not really my type.” 

“Who is it, then?” Hermione found herself asking. 

Ron’s cheeks went more pink than before, and his ears turned scarlet. 

“Musssunbsssssoooo,” he mumbled. 

Hermione caught Harry’s eye, and he looked equally as confused as she was.

“Sorry? I missed that,” she prompted again. 

Ron stuck his hands in his pockets and bit his lip before looking up at the pair of them. He was smiling despite his embarrassment, and took a deep breath before answering them. 

“Millicent Bulstrode,” he said at last. 

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline, and Harry’s jaw dropped. 

“She started working for Robards, as his secretary,” Ron rushed to explain. “She’s changed a ton. I didn’t even recognize her at first. The woman about handed me my arse when I started flirting with her, but when I realized who she was, and she started really chatting… well, I realized she’s quite nice.” 

“Blimey,” Harry said. “Bulstrode? But she’s a—"

“A Slytherin. I know.” Ron only shrugged, his cheeks still an unbecoming shade of magenta. “I wasn’t expecting to like her as much as I do, but she’s smart, and funny, and quite kind.”

“Pretty, too,” Hermione said, remembering the girl as she had looked during their sixth year. By the time Millicent Bulstrode had turned sixteen, she had lost the baby fat which had seemed to cling to her, and had learned to tame her hair and apply makeup artfully. She was still a tall girl and would never be called petite, but she was not unattractive in the least. 

“Yeah,” said Ron, and he refused to meet Hermione’s gaze. 

“I’m happy for you,” she said, reaching out and pushing his shoulder to draw his attention. “Really.” And she was. Ron deserved to date someone nice, someone who liked him the way he liked her. 

“Thanks,” he said, and his blush began to subside. 

“RONALD!” 

The trio looked up at the sound of Mrs Weasley calling to her youngest son. Her voice echoed from the sitting room into the kitchen, and Hermione was reminded of the Howler she had sent Ron in their second year. 

“I’d better see what she wants,” Ron said, giving his friends another grin. “Lets plan to meet your first Hogsmeade weekend this term, Hermione. Harry and I can come to the Three Broomsticks.” 

“I’d love that,” Hermione answered. 

“RON, COME TELL ANDROMEDA WHAT YOU TOLD ME ABOUT THE LAST CASE YOU WORKED!”

“Better get on,” Harry said, patting Ron’s back again as he turned toward the kitchen door. “See you in a few.” 

A flood of sound entered the kitchen as Ron opened the door, and then quieted again as the hinges swung shut. Hermione and Harry were left alone in room, the smell of Molly’s excellent cooking still hanging in the air and their mouths tasting of firewhisky. 

“Bulstrode,” said Harry at last, shaking his head with a bemused looking smile on his face. 

“Are you more shocked because it’s Millicent, or because it’s a Slytherin?” Hermione asked. 

Harry shrugged. 

“Both? Either way, it’s the last person I would have guessed.” 

“I hope they’re happy together,” said Hermione. Beginning to feel a bit light headed, she closed her eyes and put a hand to her head, leaning back against the counter before pressing her free hand to the cool surface there. 

“You okay?” Harry took two steps closer until he was at her side, one hand reaching around to settle, open palmed, against her back. She could feel the heat of him through her jumper, could smell the firewhisky still on his breath. 

“Mhm,” she said, and she let her eyes flutter open to focus on his. They were twin emeralds sparkling down at her, and she resisted the urge to reach up and run her fingers through his hair. 

“You’re sure?” 

The truth was that she wasn’t sure, and whether it was because of the three shots she’d downed in quick succession, or the proximity to Harry here in the Burrow’s otherwise deserted kitchen, she could not tell. 

“I think so,” she said at last, and her voice sounded raspy even to her own ears. 

Harry didn’t move. He was staring down at her, his jaw set as his gaze grew more intense and he let out a soft puff of breath. Hermione was reminded of the way he had looked on Halloween, right before he had kissed her. 

“Hermione…” The way he said her name—drawing it out and groaning all at once—made her quiver. 

“Harry.”

“I want to kiss you.”

Her stomach gave a sort of happy somersault, and she smiled. 

“Why don’t you?” She bit her lip, hoping she sounded more seductive than brash and tipsy. 

Harry really did groan this time. 

“Merlin, I want to. Shite. I’d love nothing more than to snog you senseless right now.”

“I won’t stop you,” Hermione invited, and Harry looped his arm around her waist, drawing her close. She rested her face against his clavicle contentedly. 

“Hermione, you’re a menace.” 

“Excuse me?” she said, her voice the tiniest bit shrill as she tilted her head to look up at him. 

“Aside from the fact that you're a complete lightweight, and half senseless already—"

“I resent that,” Hermione argued, though she knew he was probably closer to the truth than she. 

Harry continued. “I don’t think it’s the wisest choice to kiss you here in the middle of Molly’s kitchen, with Ron and Ginny roaming about.” 

It was Hermione’s turn to grumble now. 

“Stupid Ron,” she said. 

“You don’t mean that.”

“No, I don’t. But still.” 

Harry laughed again, and the sound warmed her as much as the drink had. 

“I like it when you do that,” she told him, pressing her cheek against him again and letting her hand find his. 

“Tell you what you mean?” Harry teased. 

“Laugh.” 

“Oh, that. Delphi likes it too. She’s come to expect a laugh any time she says ‘boo.’”

“God, she’s a sweetheart.” Hermione took a deep breath, drawing in Harry’s scent before she released him and leant back against the counter once more. “I’m going to miss her so much. Being with the two of you for the holiday has been wonderful.” 

Harry blushed and nodded his agreement. “We love having you.” He paused, and then— “You’re a part of our family.”

Hermione punched him half-heartedly in the shoulder. 

“You’re supposed to be making our impending separation less difficult, you prat.” 

Harry’s gaze grew unexpectedly serious as he caught Hermione’s eye. She bit her lip in response. 

“I’m going to miss you,” he said. 

Hermione swallowed. “Me too. But it’s only one more term before graduation, and perhaps this will be good for us.” 

Harry tilted his head to the side in question. 

“We’ve been friends for so long, maybe distance is what we need to start out with if we want to build something…different.” Hermione grew suddenly nervous. “That is, if you still want to have something aside from friendship. I’d understand if you had changed your mind or if you wanted—"

“Hermione,” Harry interrupted her before she could say any more. “I definitely want more than friendship with you. Not to be a cad, but after last night, I can barely think of anything other than you in that nightgown. Or the way you felt when I—" He paused, swallowing hard as he stared down at her, his pupils wide and black as pitch. “When I ran my hands down your side and you pressed your breasts up against me.”

Hermione felt herself melt, felt a fire building in her stomach and a slick heat begin to travel from inside her, down to the secret place between her thighs. 

“I want you so much it hurts,” Harry continued. “I want to kiss you and feel you until neither of us can breathe. You’re all I want, Hermione, and I can guarantee you right now that there’s no chance at all I’m going to change my mind about that.” 

“Oh,” was all Hermione was capable of saying after that, but the look they shared was so full of heat and promise that neither of them was left doubting what the other wanted. 

A loud bang echoed through the kitchen, drawing the pair back to reality as they jumped apart and Molly Weasley bustled into the kitchen. 

“Excuse me, dear,” she said, sounding distracted as she brushed past Hermione to lift a pie off of the counter behind her. 

“Sorry,” apologized Hermione instinctively. But Molly didn’t appear to hear her. She was shouting over her shoulder again and into the sitting room, apparently still carrying on a conversation with Andromeda. 

And just like that, she was gone again, leaving Harry and Hermione to stand somewhat guiltily beside one another in the once again silent kitchen. 

Feeling instantly sobered, Hermione cleared her throat. 

“Well,” she said, her tone light still. “I’m rather glad you didn’t kiss me, now.” 

Harry arched a brow and nodded. 

“I feel the same, you know,” Hermione blurted after a short silence. “About you.” 

“That’s a relief,” said Harry, and his voice was simultaneously teasing and enormously pleased. 

“And that’s why I think this term is going to be good for us,” Hermione finished. 

“What? Why?” The confident expression on Harry’s face melted into one of alarm, and Hermione had to consciously stop herself from laughing at the change. 

“I just think that being apart will allow us to wrap our minds around things. To talk more and to get used to the idea of  _ us _ . Because it’s not just us, is it? If we jump blindly into a relationship, Delphi’s along for the ride. We need to be able to consider what steps we want to take, and how it will affect her. Get to know one another on a different level, and then decide whether this—" she motioned between them, “—is something we want to pursue in view of your daughter.” 

By the time she looked up to gauge Harry’s reaction, he was smiling, his teeth white and straight as he stared down at her, a warm look in his eye. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to someone talking so logically,” he said. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and punched his shoulder again. 

“I’m serious, Harry.”

His smile grew wider, and he reached for her hand again, enveloping it with his own. She could feel the calluses on his fingers from where he gripped his firebolt. 

“Me too.” 

His voice was deep and soothing, and Hermione blushed and grinned at him in return. 

  
  



	21. Chapter 21

4 January 1999

Dear Harry,

I rarely find it as difficult to write as I do now. It’s hard to find the words without sounding blunt when you’re putting quill to parchment. As you’re an Auror now, you’ll likely already know, but a Hogwarts student was murdered with her family over the holiday. Headmistress McGonagall told us all at dinner. You’d think I would be less affected by death, after what we’ve been through, but I find myself preoccupied by the news. 

She was a first year Slytherin. Ruth. I’m sure you’ll remember her. She was the little girl who asked me for my autograph at King’s Cross in September. She was so sweet, so eager to learn and to prove herself. She reminded me of myself at her age. And now she’s gone. All of them are gone. Her mother, her father, even her baby brother. 

It’s not fair, Harry. What the hell did we fight for if not for safety from this kind of evil? You were nearly killed. I was tortured. Hundreds died in the war, and still they’re out there, biding their time and hating anyone who isn’t exactly like them. What are we supposed to do now? I’m tired, and I’m afraid, and I’m not sure I have it in me to do it all over again. 

I’m sorry for the maudlin letter, but between leaving you and Delphi this morning, and the news this evening, I’m not feeling very cheery. Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day. 

Hermione. 

———

5 January 1999

Dear Hermione, 

I’m not nearly as eloquent as you are, but I want you to know how sorry I am. And furious. 

We’re going to catch the bastard who did this. I’ve been assigned to the case along with about a dozen more Aurors, because apparently having been hunted by Voldemort for my entire life gives me a ‘valuable’ perspective. And we’re going to catch them, Hermione. I promise you, I won’t let them get away with it. Because that’s what we do in the face of it all. We press on. We seek justice. We make the world a bleak place for the remaining Death Eaters, and any other Dark Wizard who thinks they can kill without consequences. 

I miss you already, and I’m so sorry the beginning of term wasn’t peaceful and happy like it should have been. 

Harry

———

15 January 1999

Harry,

Sorry to owl you at work, but we’ve just gotten the date of our first Hogsmeade weekend. Any chance you and Ron can make it on the twenty-third? 

Please give Caliban a treat and send him back with your answer. 

Expectantly, 

Hermione

PS: I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to respond to your last two letters. I promise I’ll write you a novel tonight! 

———

15 January 1999

H—

I’d love to, but I’ve already promised Andromeda that I’ll take Teddy that day. She’s got a date, apparently. Ron says he’s free, though, and will meet you if you’re up for it.

Please let me know the moment you find out when your next free weekend is. 

Looking forward to your novel, 

H—

———

21 January 1999

Dear Harry, 

Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Transfiguration, and Charms today. Ancient Runes and Transfiguration were actually combined, as both Professor Babbling and Professor Altermann wanted to introduce us to the practical application of runes in transfiguration. The class was fascinating, and I plan to make a study of the subject on my own. The opportunity for interdisciplinary application of runes is honestly staggering, and one of the reasons I love the subject so much. I’m sure you’re well aware of their application in defense, especially where wards are involved, but did you know that combining certain runes with transfiguration can allow for permanent transmutation? Well, nearly permanent. The magic attaches itself to the rune rather than the magical signature of the caster, and as such can last beyond the caster’s life span. I’m including copies of some of my class notes with this letter, which I think will help to illustrate my point. 

In other news, Professor McGonagall posted the next Hogsmeade weekend date yesterday evening. If you haven’t any other plans for the Valentines weekend, I’d love to see you and Delphi on the thirteenth. Perhaps we can all go to Madam Puddifoot's. 

Joking. I’m only joking. About tea, not about wanting to see the two of you. 

I had a dream the other night that we were all at Grimmauld Place again, and I’ve been missing you ever since. Sometimes I think coming back to Hogwarts was a mistake. I feel so out of step with everyone else. I’m older, of course, but the real difference is that I’ve been on my own before, and a great many of the students here never have. The last year of the war changed me, made me more independent, and being here again, having to be in my room by a certain time, or not being able to leave whenever I like… well, it chafes a bit. Especially when I realize it means rarely getting to see you. 

And perhaps this is superficial of me, but I really miss kissing you. Our letters are lovely, they give us a chance to talk without relying on physicality to define the romantic aspect of our relationship, but it feels like there’s something missing, and now that I’ve experienced it, I can’t just pretend it isn’t an option. 

Yours, 

Hermione

———

23 January 1999

Dear Hermione,

Thanks for the notes. I looked over them, and I’ve sent them back with some questions. I’m curious about the potential applications for my work. Can, for example, my uniform be imbued with a protection rune, which links to an inert transfiguration spell which, once activated, transforms a piece of the uniform into a physical shield that could block the Killing Curse? We know fabric doesn’t stop the curse, but harder materials like stone and steel do. Anyway, I’m probably way off base, but it would be nice to hear your thoughts. 

Christ, I’m glad you were brave enough to bring it up first, because I am apparently the most cowardly Gryffindor in existence. Not to overstate things, but it’s been agony not touching you. And I dream about you too, but unlike your dreams, mine definitely don’t involve Delphi. I wake up in the morning, disappointed that you’re not here, and after I put Delphi to sleep at night I wish I could apparate to Scotland and sneak into your dormitory just to see you smile. 

Merlin, I miss you. 

Love, 

Harry

———

23 January 1999

Dear Harry, 

For your information, your letter came while I was at lunch with Ron, Ginny, Theo, Neville, and Luna. For your further edification, I blushed like mad and your ex-girlfriend snatched the letter away from me without asking, and then proceeded to make a variety of unflattering assumptions about you and I before telling me I could “cross the river Styx for all she cares” and then leaving the Three Broomsticks with her boyfriend. 

Ron, at least, waited to hear my side of things before he told me he understood and then left to chase after Ginny. 

Luna and Neville are both very happy for us though, so that’s something. 

Over-all, an eventful day. 

Hermione. 

———

23 January 1999

Harry, 

I’m sending this with a school owl because Caliban is still out with the last letter I sent. I just wanted to tell you that despite the drama of the afternoon, your letter made me incredibly happy. I’ll review your questions soon. 

Love,

Hermione

———

14 February 1999

Dear Hermione, 

It’s been 24 hours since I last saw you, and I already miss you again. I probably sound like a fool, but our visit has been the highlight of the year for me so far. Delphi was so ecstatic when she saw you, and we just felt whole again. And you looked beautiful. I know I said it then, but it bears repeating. 

I spoke with Ron this afternoon at the Burrow. He’d been avoiding me at work, which is easy to do these days as we’re so bloody busy. We talked about what happened last month, and he admitted it was uncomfortable for him but that he believed us when we said nothing happened while the two of you were together. He told me he planned on writing you to clear the air soon, actually, so look out for that. I hope Ginny’s not still trying to make things miserable for you. If you want, I can owl her myself. It’s not fair that you have to be the one to deal with the fallout there. 

Now I know we said we wouldn’t do more than small gifts today, but you have to understand that I’ve never had a proper girlfriend on Valentine’s Day before… so I may have overdone it a bit. I hope you’ll forgive me in time. 

Love, 

Harry

———

16 February 1999

Harry James Potter, you’re a menace. You  _ might _ have overdone it  _ a bit _ ? There were so many bouquets of roses I had to put them on my roommates dressers. If Ginny hadn’t received a very expensive piece of jewelry from Theo, I’m sure she would have murdered me with one in my sleep. Incidentally, my own gift was exquisite, and I’m wearing it now. 

Love, 

Hermione

———

2 March 1999

Dear Hermione, 

It feels like there’s a mountain troll sitting on my head today. I suppose it serves me right for drinking my weight in Muggle alcohol last night. But it was Ron’s birthday, and the other aurors kept buying him shots, and we both knew we had to work today, so he shared his drinks with me so that we would both only get half as pissed. It was, perhaps, a flawed plan in retrospect. Mulligan, Ron’s partner, noticed what we were doing, and the whole team chipped in to buy Ron double rounds. So we both ended up getting completely pissed anyway. Serves me right for trying to do a good deed. 

Delphi’s been incredibly cute lately though. She’s talking more and becoming very demanding, which is honestly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. 

Yesterday I was giving her a snack before bed and went to snatch one of the little biscuits for myself. She looked at me said, with a scowl on her face: “Daddy, no have biscuit. Delphi’s biscuit, Daddy.” I laughed for a solid five minutes after that, because she kept hopping between glaring and demanding more biscuits, and laughing with me because she knew she was amusing. She’s bloody charming, that girl. Sometimes when I look at her, and I see her figuring out how the world works, and how to bend it in her favor… I know it’s a common toddler trait, but it reminds me of him. And I pity him, because he made all the wrong choices, and he’ll never be able to know Delphi the way I do, never be able to laugh with her, or comfort her when she’s upset. She’s part of him, and she’ll never know him. I can see the little things she inherited from the both of them, and all I can really feel is relief that they’ll never touch her again, never be able to twist her natural tendencies the way they themselves were twisted. Is that wrong of me? 

Well, I think that’s quite enough introspection for my half-drunk lunch hour. 

Love you, Hermione. 

Harry

———

3 March 1999

Oh Harry, 

You are a magnificent father, and if it is wrong of you to be relieved that they are dead, then I am in the wrong too. Delphi is a sweet soul, and you have become her protector. It’s natural to fear the past and to dread what might have been. But it is important to remember that here and now, she is safe, and she is loved, and she will grow up knowing both. I’ll make sure of it, Harry, right alongside you. 

Love, Hermione. 

PS: I’m sending some sober-up potion Neville confiscated from one of the fifth year Ravenclaws. He sends it with his regards. 

———

17 March 1999

H-

Can’t go into detail, but we caught them. I am safe and healthy. Read the  _ Prophet _ tomorrow, and I’ll write more when I can.

Love,

H-

———

18 March 1999

Harry, you wonderful, brilliant auror. I got the paper at breakfast and devoured the article in about a minute. I had to re-read I was going so fast. I don’t know why I’m surprised by the way things seem to have happened—you always were the one to jump first and look second—but I can only be grateful that you are talented enough to have escaped harm. Three Marked Death Eaters, Harry! You could have been killed. Did you realize there was more than one when you went in? Please tell me you had back up. When I think of what might have happened—well, it doesn’t bear writing. The important thing is, you caught them, and now there can be justice for Ruth and her family.

Please write again soon. Tell Delphi I love her. And stay safe! I don’t know what I would do without you. 

Love, 

Hermione. 

———

20 April 1999

Dear Harry, 

I had a dream last night, and as you were so kind as to share one of yours with me, I thought I might return the favor. 

We were out on a date. You and I were sitting beside each other, and Neville was sitting across from us next to Ginny. (Have I told you she’s finally started speaking to me again?) Anyway, Neville was talking about plants, and I was completely lost because I could feel your hand on my thigh. You were stroking me through my skirt, and your hand was warm. When I looked up at you, we were alone, and you smiled at me before leaning in and kissing me. While your lips moved over mine, I began to feel hot, and your hand starting moving from my thigh, up my leg. I was so aroused, Harry, and when I woke up I nearly cried because none of it was real. 

I never thought the distance would be this difficult to deal with. As much as I appreciate our letters… you can’t kiss a scroll, at least not the way I want to be kissed. You’ll help me with that, won’t you? Next time we see each other? 

Love, 

Hermione

———

21 April, 1999

Hermione,

You’ve nearly killed me. I can’t think of anything but your letter today. I close my eyes, and I imagine my hand on your thigh, traveling upward. I imagine where it might have gone if you hadn’t woken up. I’m sorry if that’s too forward. I’m going mad missing you today, and you can rest assured I’ll help you with whatever you want the next time I see you. 

Yours, 

Harry

———

2 May 1999

Dear Harry, 

I know today is going to be hard. It’s normal, I think, for those of us who survived—who carved our way from the brink of loss—to mourn. We won, but we did not do so without cost. 

As you attend the Ministry’s gala tonight, know that though I am not with you in person, I am thinking of you. You are not alone. You are loved. You did the right thing. You are brave, and kind, and wonderful. And I love you. 

Our world owes you so much, Harry. I know it makes you uncomfortable to hear it, to acknowledge this gratitude strangers feel toward you, but we would not be here if it weren’t for you, and your unfailing goodness. Thank you for making the choice to be a kind, fair, brilliant man. You’re my hero, Harry, in more ways than one. 

Love, 

Hermione. 

\------

2 May 1999

Dear Hermione,

It’s early morning, and I’m missing you today more than most. I know that you understand how days like this make me feel. When others feel the victory, I feel loss. It doesn’t feel like a day to celebrate. But despite it all, I can’t help but be glad that we did what we had to, that we fought and we bled and we won. It brought me Delphi. It brought me you, Hermione. I owe everything I cherish to this day, a year ago. 

Think of me today, Hermione. Know that I’m here, imagining you smiling at me. Know that I would not be alive to feel conflicted today if it weren’t for you, and that you are a brilliant, strong, brave, and beautiful woman that I cannot fathom my life without. 

You’re my best friend. The girl I love. Thank you, for everything you are. 

Love, 

Harry

———

3 May 1999

Dear Hermione, 

You’ve no idea how much your letter yesterday meant to me. I’d just sent mine off when yours arrived, and I’m not ashamed to admit I read it three times and then carried it with me throughout the rest of the day. 

The gala was predictably chaotic, but somber enough to be respectful. They gave me an Order of Merlin First Class, which apparently comes with a stipend. I’m trying to figure out what to do with that. I want it to go toward the orphans of the war, but I’m not sure exactly how to go about that. Any insight you might have would be great. 

Oh, and Fleur had her baby! Molly fire called me last night after the party to share the news, and I went to the hospital after work today with Delphi. It’s a girl, and she’s tiny and bald with the roundest cheeks I’ve ever seen. They’ve named her Victoire, because she was born on the anniversary of the victory. Bill’s ecstatic, of course. He grinned the entire time I was there, and Fleur just sort of watched him indulgently as he showed off the baby. They’re going to be great parents. And Victoire is going to be the warmest baby in all of England. I spotted three different hand knitted Weasley blankets lying about the hospital. I think Molly is trying to make her one in every color. 

On an unrelated note, if you have a few spare moments, I’d like your thoughts on a case I’m currently working. I’m having trouble with the runes found in some old wards we’re having to work around. The brains in our office are apparently unequal to the task, because not a single one of them recognizes it. I’m sending the renderings along with this letter. 

Have a wonderful night, Hermione. I’ll be thinking of you. 

Love, 

Harry 

\------

15 May 1999

Dear Harry, 

I’m sorry you couldn’t make it to Hogsmeade today, but I was grateful for the owl you sent warning me that that might be the case. I hope whichever dark witch or wizard you’re currently apprehending rues the day they prevented you from seeing me. And that you stay safe. Don’t take too many risks Harry, for my nerves. (Have you ever read Jane Austen? I can’t picture you with a copy of Pride and Prejudice, but if you do decide to revisit Muggle literature, you might understand my little joke there.)

Our day was pleasant enough. I spent several hours at Tomes and Scrolls with Neville, who was incredibly impressed with their Herbology section. Did you know it’s Neville’s aim to teach Herbology here at Hogwarts in the future? He might one day be Delphi’s professor! After the bookshop, we met Ginny and Theo at the Hog's Head Inn. Their public displays of affection have gotten to be a bit nauseating, but, even so, I can’t help but envy them the ease of it. Poor Neville was so uncomfortable, though. He’s still desperately in love with Ginny, and she barely notices anyone but Theo these days. I wish I knew him better and could be confident he was really good for Ginny. But they’re so wrapped up in one another that it’s hard to get close to either of them. I’m sure in time that will pass, I’m just afraid she’s thrown herself into this relationship as a way to cover her own disappointment and loneliness. Of course, it’s not really my business, but I want her to be happy. She’s been my friend for such a long time, and I care about her. 

On a happier note, Luna has apparently discovered a new species of nargle, and has told me she will be sending you a kit to help disperse them. She’s already taken the liberty of clearing my dormitory and the Gryffindor common room. 

Love, 

Hermione

———

6 June 1999

Dear Hermione,

You would have loved yesterday. I had Teddy with me for the day, and I took him and Delphi to the zoo. I had to buy a double pram for the occasion, but it was worth it. Teddy’s one now, and he and Delphi were both absolutely in love with the animals. Teddy was obsessed with the Lion. He kept saying “Roar, roar!” and trying to bite me. Not sure where he learned that, but Delphi thought it was hysterical. She loved the snakes though. The reptile house was humid, but she wouldn’t let me leave for the longest time. 

I think she may have been speaking parsletongue, actually. I couldn’t understand most of it—I think when the piece of him that was in me died, it took that with it—but I do remember the sound of it, the way it felt on my tongue. And maybe I should be more concerned about the fact that she can speak with snakes, but it feels like something that connects her to  _ me _ , not to him. 

And I had a thought, Hermione. Please tell me if it's daft. I was thinking about the similarities between us a few weeks ago. Really I’ve been thinking about them since the beginning. People tell me she looks like me, and I’ve always chalked it up to the color of her hair, but what if she does look like me? I know that biologically, I’m not her father. Magically, yes, but I didn’t make her. But I did make Voldemort. He used my blood to build his body in that graveyard. Voldemort after he returned looked nothing like Voldemort in his youth. What if the spell they used literally built his body with  _ my _ blood and his father's bone and Wormtail's flesh? What would that mean for Delphi’s genetics? If we tested her blood the Muggle way, would it show that she is related to me after all? I suppose in the end, it doesn’t matter, but it’s been on my mind. 

I have to go now, and I want this letter to go out tonight, so I’ll end it there. 

I love you, 

Harry. 

PS: Good luck with your N.E.W.T.s! I know you won’t need it, because you’re brilliant, but I’m sending it anyway!

———

9 June 1999

Dear Harry,

I’m sad to have missed the zoo. Please tell me you took photographs, even Muggle ones. 

I’ve thought about what you said, and I did a bit of research in the Restricted Section last night. From what I was able to find, I think you might be right. If your blood—and with it your family's magic—flows through Delphi’s veins in any capacity, it would certainly explain your magic’s attraction to her, and your steadfast concern over her even before you had met her. I think it might be worth testing, if you’re not adverse to a bit of Muggle science. 

No matter what you decide though, it doesn’t change the fact that she’s your daughter in every way that counts and that you are her father. 

I love you too, Harry.

Yours,

Hermione

PS: I’ll take all the luck I can get. Any felix left?

———

23 June 1999

Dear Hermione, 

Tomorrow is the day! I can hardly believe you’ll be graduating in the morning. I’m sorry I’ve been so quiet this past week, but I’ve done something that has required quite a bit of attention. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow evening.

I’m coming to the school first thing in the morning to see you. I’ve taken the day off of work and plan to make the most of it. Thankfully McGonagall’s given me permission to visit. I’ll leave you right before the ceremony, and be waiting for you on the other side of the lake when it begins. 

I love you so much, Hermione, and am so incredibly proud of you, and proud to be yours. 

Harry

  
  



	22. Chapter 22

_ Hogwarts _

_ 24 June 1999 _

The castle was quiet when she rose for the day, a warm glow in the center of her chest. She dressed slowly, taking the time she never had before to glance around the room and soak up every detail of her surroundings. Ginny and the other seventh year girls were still abed, their curtains drawn; the velvet, burgundy curtains of the four poster beds formed islands throughout the room, each one inhabited by a different person. From where she stood, Hermione could see the trunks, bedside tables, and armoires belonging to each of her dorm mates. A couple sets (hers included) were incredibly tidy, while the rest were still strewn with bits of parchment, makeup, and other odds and ends that seemed distinctly feminine. 

Hermione sighed. If the other girls weren’t careful, they’d be too late packing and miss the ceremony altogether. Waving her wand through the air, Hermione conjured an alarm clock which she set to go off in another half hour, and then made her way out of of the room. She paused at the doorway, gave one last sweeping glance around, and then descended the spiral staircase to the common room. 

She was pleased to see that Neville was already below, sitting in one of the good arm chairs beside the fire. She thought at first that he might be reading, but as she drew nearer, she realized he was leaning forward in his chair and staring intently at the seat across from him. 

“Really?” he asked, an animated expression on his face. “That’s brilliant. I always knew you’d do well.” 

“Neville?” Hermione tried to keep her expression neutral, but at the look of surprise on the young man’s face, she was sure her own features slipped into obvious concern. 

“Hermione!” he said, and then smiled. He leaned back in his chair, his right hand resting on the arm as he glanced back at the seat across from him and then up at Hermione. “We’ve been waiting for you. Just been having a chat.” 

“We?” She looked back at the empty armchair, squinting to try and make out the tell-tale shimmer of a disillusionment charm. 

“Yup. I’ll leave you two alone now though. I fancy one last Hogwarts breakfast. My Nan’s elf doesn’t cook nearly as well as the ones here. Mind you, she’s ancient, so she doesn’t do much anymore, which is a blessing, really. I’ve never met a more exacting house-elf in my life.” 

And with that, Neville stood, ignoring Hermione’s bewildered expression and leaning in to give her a single, chaste peck on the cheek. 

“You’ll come round for a meal sometime, won’t you?” he asked, and Hermione nodded uncertainly. 

“Neville, are you sure you’re—"

“Excellent. I’ll see the both of you then. If I miss you at the ceremony.” 

And then he went, leaving Hermione standing in front of the merrily crackling fire, seemingly alone in the Common Room. A bit spooked, Hermione glanced about. Neville had been speaking to someone, and unless her friend was losing his mind—which was a possibility too grim to consider properly—that meant she might not be completely alone. 

“Hello?” she said, and her voice echoed throughout the room. Nothing around her stirred. The Gryffindor banners on the walls and the sofas and tables she’d covered every inch of with books and parchments throughout the year stayed blessedly silent. She let out a sigh, though whether it was of relief or consternation she was unsure. And then, quite out of no-where, she felt a large, warm hand wrap itself around her own, and a low voice whisper in her ear. 

“Hello.” 

She yelped and drew her hand back as if it had been burned, looking wildly about for the source of the voice until at last she saw a floating head in the air beside her. She gaped for several seconds before she found her voice. 

“HARRY!” 

“Shhhh!” He winced, glancing at the exits and then grinning at her before his head disappeared once more. 

“Harry  _ what _ are you doing here?” she screeched, her voice unnaturally high.

He spoke, and his voice sounded amused. “Visiting my girlfriend, of course.” 

Hermione’s belly flopped at his words, and she grinned despite herself. She’d never heard him use the word in person before. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, half happy and half horrified at his sudden appearance. She hated to think how many rules he’d broken to sneak into the common room under his Invisibility Cloak. 

He twined his fingers through hers again, and this time she didn’t pull away, only watched as her hand disappeared beneath the cloak. 

“I couldn’t wait to see you until the ceremony,” he confessed, his voice rasping slightly. 

Hermione’s smile widened, and she glanced around the room again. Seeing no one, she was happy to leave her hand in his, feeling his thumb stroking over hers. 

“Come with me,” he said, and she felt him begin to tug her toward the portrait hole. “Just for a while.”

She allowed herself to be drawn out of the common room, her cheeks flaming as they passed a group of fourth year boys jostling down the hall. Harry released her hand only long enough for them to pass before taking it in his own again, and leading her to an empty wall down another corridor. 

“The Room of Requirement,” Hermione breathed, and she felt Harry give her hand a little squeeze before releasing it. Several moments later, a door appeared in the wall, opening of its own accord. 

“Come on.” Harry spoke very close to her ear, and Hermione shivered, taking several steps into the room and watching as the door closed behind her. She took in the room, noting the wide window on the far wall, the sofa opposite a crackling fire, and the red and gold rug beneath her feet. 

“Goodness,” she said. “It’s lovely. 

“Not as lovely as you.”

This time when she looked up, she could see him. He’d dropped the Cloak into a silvery puddle on the floor around his feet and stood with his hands in his pockets. His hair was a mess. He’d tied it back, but being under the cloak had brushed a great deal of it free, and it hung around his face in disarray. His beard was thick and neatly trimmed, and his emerald green eyes sparkled as he stared down at her. God, how she’d missed him. 

“Harry, you can’t just sneak into the school.” 

He laughed. 

“I can, and I did.” The confident look on his face seemed to melt just a bit as he added, “Do you really mind?” 

Exasperated, Hermione shook her head. “Of course not, daft man. But if we’re caught they’ll likely keep my diploma on display as a lesson to any other rule-breaking graduates. And that’ll be on  _ your _ head.”

His grin bloomed again. “I think I’m willing to risk it." 

And then, because she couldn’t help herself for a moment longer, Hermione reached for him, pulling him closer by his upper arm and noting the hard muscle there beneath his jumper as she did so. 

“I’ve missed you like mad,” she confessed. 

“Have you? Well, that makes one of us.” His teasing voice was low, and she hit his stupidly muscular shoulder in retribution. Harry only laughed and wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her in for a hug. 

“Christ, what do they feed you Aurors?” Hermione groused, her words muffled against his chest. 

“Am I gaining weight?” 

“You know very well what I mean.” 

She felt his breath on her ear as he leaned down to answer her, and the sensation made her shiver pleasantly. 

“I’m flattered you noticed.”

“Don’t get too cocky,” Hermione ordered, “I could still take you in a duel.” 

“No doubt about that.” 

His hand began to rub circles on her back as she pressed her cheek the spot just below his collarbone. Without meaning to, Hermione made an embarrassing noise, and then froze. Harry only chuckled low in his throat and breathed in the scent of her hair. She was suddenly very glad she’d washed it earlier that morning. She hated to think of the state it had been in by the time she’d finished her N.E.W.T.s. 

They stood in one another’s arms for a full minute before Hermione pulled back, smiling at the resistance Harry manifested to the separation. 

“Where have you left my goddaughter, then?” She asked, taking his hands in hers as she looked up at him. Had he always been this handsome from close quarters, or was it a new development?

“Delphi is happily being spoiled at the Burrow. Molly insisted I let her stay the morning, until it’s time to head to Hogsmeade… And I had plans of my own, so I didn’t much object.” 

“Plans?” Hermione prodded. “Plural? So there’s more for you to do this morning than just sneaking into Hogwarts and corrupting an otherwise exemplary student?”

Harry practically snorted at this, and if Hermione weren’t very aware of her own track record with rule breaking, she might have been offended. 

“Let’s just say there’s more to your surprise today than getting to snog the Chosen One in the Come and Go Room.” 

“Getting to—Harry your ego has become—”

Before she could finish her sentence, Harry laughed exultantly and leaned down to capture her mouth with his.

His kiss was magic. And heat. And joy. She’d never felt anything so glorious as the way his lips warmed against hers, pouring fire directly into her veins as his hands wrapped around her waist and he pulled her tight against him. She’d missed this more than she had wanted to admit, but here in his embrace there was no point in denying it. His fingers brushed against her lower back and she thrilled, a shiver racing from the point where he stroked her, up her spine, making her back arch and the kiss deepen. 

She moaned against him, and his tongue traced the seam between her lips. And because she wanted to be closer to him, to feel as much of him as she could in these few moments of glorious, untempered wildness, she opened her mouth for him. 

This time it was Harry’s turn to groan, and Hermione gloried in it, one of her hands reaching up to tangle in his long hair. The bit of elastic, which had failed to keep his coal black locks neat, fell to the floor, and as she gave another little shiver of excitement, Harry seemed to redouble his efforts. 

His tongue swept against hers, hot and so enticing she wanted nothing more than for the kiss to deepen, for his hands to wander and explore the planes of her until she was a quivering mess. His teeth nipped at her lower lip, sharp and exciting, and Hermione felt as if she were on fire. 

Minutes later, still locked in one another's embrace, Harry pulled away. Hermione heard herself whine at the loss of contact but couldn’t bring herself to be embarrassed by the sound. 

“Merlin, Morganna, and Circe.” His voice was hoarse and his eyes shut tight as he pressed his forehead down and against hers. “Hermione, you’re going to kill me.” 

“Only if you don’t start kissing me again soon,” she heard herself say. 

Harry chuckled, the sounds rumbling low in his chest where she could feel him pressed against her. 

“Christ, I’d never stop if I didn’t have to go soon.” 

“Go?” she asked, and even to her own ears, her voice sounded forlorn. 

“Not because I want to,” Harry clarified, “but I have a promise to keep. And your surprise needs tending.” 

“I like  _ this  _ surprise,” she pressed. 

“I promise you’ll like my next one better.” 

Hermione sighed and nodded, and Harry leant down to press a single, close mouthed kiss to the tip of her nose. 

“I love you, Hermione,” he said, his voice warm and so sincere she thought she might cry. 

“I love you too, Harry.” 

He kissed her cheek and released her. The room felt cold outside the circle of his arms. 

“I’ll see you at the ceremony,” Harry said, leaning down to retrieve his cloak. “We’ll talk more after. Or another day, if there isn’t time.” 

Hermione arched a brow. 

“I find it hard to imagine I wouldn’t have time for you.” 

Harry grinned and shrugged. 

“We’ll see,” he said, and then kissed her once more before disappearing beneath his cloak. “Have a good breakfast,” he said once the door had opened. “Promise me.” 

Confused, Hermione nodded. 

“I promise,” she said. And then she listened the the telltale sound of his trainers on the flagstone floor as he disappeared from the corridor. 

0-0-0-0-0-0

The lake glittered under the morning sun as the graduating seventh and eight years gathered outside the castle, standing on the grassy slope which overlooked the entirety of the black lake and the mountains and hills beyond. Hermione was struck by the natural beauty of the scene. Perhaps it had been her ambition which had kept her from appreciating the loveliness of Hogwarts’ surroundings over the past eight years—or, more likely, the strain of trying to fit into a world where she was undervalued and often not wanted—but the last time she remembered marveling at this scene she’d been eleven and arriving at school for the first time. Then, it had been dark. The lake had shone with hundreds of lights streaming from the castle’s windows, and from the twinkling stars overhead. She’d felt breathless, sitting beside Neville and Harry and Ron, as the life she had known became a distant memory and her future laid itself open before her. 

“You ready?” 

Hermione looked up at the brown haired man who stood beside her. He’d certainly grown out of the baby fat and the uncertainty that had marked his childhood. 

“Almost,” she said. They turned together to glimpse the castle again, and Hermione reached out to loop her arm through Neville’s. 

“It looks just as it did when we came,” she said, marveling. 

“A miracle, that. Considering last year.” 

“Magic covers a multitude of sins,” Hermione mused. 

“You two almost done gawking?” Ginny called from near the top of a long flight of stone steps at the edge of the green lawn. Theo was several paces ahead of her, his head just barely visible beyond the line of the cliff upon which Hogwarts stood. 

“We’re coming,” Hermione called back at her. “Save us seats!” 

Ginny nodded and followed her boyfriend down the steps. Neville watched her go with a resigned expression on his face. Hermione said nothing, only gave his arm a gentle squeeze before releasing him and turning to follow the redheaded girl. 

“We’ll miss the boats if we don’t go now,” Hermione told him. She waited as Neville took one last look at the castle and its grounds, his gaze lingering on a familiar spot she knew still haunted him before he turned and gave her a thumbs up. 

“Ready,” he said. 

“Cheer up,” Hermione ordered. “You’ll be back before you know it, future Professor Longbottom.” 

“Don’t jinx it.” 

Hermione smiled and led the way down the steep stone steps which curved down the side of the cliff and into a stone passage that descended deeper into the rock face. The narrow walkway was lit by sconces every few yards, and as they made their way downward, the hum of a hundred or more voices buzzed through the tunnel, echoing around them in a happy jumble. At last, they reached a pebbled beach Hermione had seen only once before. The little harbor encased in stone was flooded with seventh year students and seemed far more crowded than it had when they were all first years. 

“All aboard now! Everyone onto a boat! The Headmistress is waiting!” Hagrid’s voice boomed around them, and the excited students took turns scrambling onto the fleet of boats waiting in the water. Once they were all aboard—Hermione sitting beside Neville once again, this time with Ginny and Theo sitting behind them—the boats moved in unison until they reached a dark tunnel, at which point they floated, single file, through the darkness, emerging on the other side through a curtain of ivy which concealed the entrance from the outside. When it was her boat's turn to go through, Hermione closed her eyes tightly, letting the sun hit her face and warm the skin there before she opened them again. 

The lake was wide and lovely, reflecting the blue sky and sparse clouds as the boats cut a path through the mirrored surface. Hermione took only a few moments to look over her shoulder at the castle as it began to recede into the distance. She could just barely make out the window of her dormitory and of the Gryffindor common room. 

“Look!” Ginny called over her shoulder, and Hermione followed the line of the girl’s arm and pointed finger to see the banks at the other end of the lake coming into view. The rocky beach was flooded with people, and alongside the joy Hermione felt, there was a small pang at the thought of those who would not be there waiting for her. 

“Is that my gran?” asked Neville, squinting. Hermione thought she might have been able to make out a vulture atop a hat, but couldn’t be sure it wasn’t just a large, beak nosed man. 

“I’m not sure,” Hermione said, spotting a clump of people with bright red hair, “but there are the Weasleys.”

The closer they grew to the edge of the lake, the closer the boats grew to one another, until at last, they were single file again, and Hermione’s view of the beach was obscured. After several seconds of stillness, Professor McGonagall’s magically magnified voice boomed across the lake for all to hear. 

“Welcome, honored family and friends, to the leaving ceremony. Each year, we teachers are delighted to meet our newest students, to see the talent and the promise that they all show, first hand. We celebrate with them though their triumphs—" Here, she paused. “And we mourn with them through their sorrows. This class, more than most before it, has honored our school with their courage, cunning, kindness, and keen intellect. I have never been prouder than I am today of the fine, upstanding young men and women we have had the privilege of educating.” 

Hermione felt her throat begin to grow tight as the Headmistress continued. 

“Now, as these young men and young women leave us, we honor them and their achievements, as well as the memory of those who should be among them today.” 

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat and began to read a list of names aloud. Each name was like a sharp sigh on the air. Some, Hermione had known better than others, but she had met and walked amongst each of the students whose names were spoken, and she mourned with all of her peers as their sacrifices were honored. When the reading was done, the boats were motioned forward, one by one, and the graduates began to disembark. Hermione listened to their names and to the words the Headmistress spoke to them, the weight of this moment sinking in as her turn grew nearer and nearer. After some graduates disembarked, there was a loud cheer from their families and friends. Others, such as Draco Malfoy, were met with silence. When it came to Ginny’s turn, the noise was so riotous Professor Mcgonagall had to quiet them with a sharp look, and Ginny laughed before winking at the scandalized older witch. Theo went next, to more sedate Weasley applause, and was followed by Neville, for whom much of the crowd cheered happily. 

When at last it was Hermione’s turn, she stepped carefully onto the beach, letting Professor Slughorn help her down with a beaming smile before approaching her old Transfiguration teacher. When she had reached her, Professor McGonagall smiled warmly and held her wand in front of her, slightly raised in Hermione’s direction. Having been instructed the evening before on the particulars of the ceremony, Hermione raised her own wand, pressing its tip to that of the older witch’s. 

“Hermione Granger.” The Headmistress’ voice shook just slightly as she spoke, her eyes shining. “Your magic is strong and true. May it serve you well as you continue to grow in wisdom.” 

“Thank you, Professor,” said Hermione, feeling very much as if she might burst into happy tears. 

“Oh my dear, it has been my pleasure.” 

From there, Hermione made her way down the line of professors, shaking each of their hands in turn until at last she was standing with the other graduates, all beaming and holding their wands in their hands as they stared up at the castle which had been their home for almost half of their lives. The place where many of them had fought and bled and suffered; where they had felt joy and made friendships and fallen in love. 

After the last student had disembarked, Professor McGonagall turned to face the crowd of assembled witches and wizards, smiling broadly. 

“Your time at Hogwarts has come to an end,” she said, “but your education never will. Each decision you make, every step you take, will add to your experience as you walk forward through life. You have all made us immeasurably proud, and we are delighted to recognize you as witches and wizards of merit, and as our peers in magic.  _ Leig le do ghliocas àrdachadh _ !” 

With that, the ceremony was ended, and the students let out a whoop, cheering and crying and hugging one another all at once. Hermione was no exception, clutching Neville and Ginny tightly as she grinned like mad, before looking for Luna in the sea of graduates and throwing her arms around her. When they were done, the former students turned to face the crowd on the rocky beach, all standing and cheering for their loved ones, calling out names and waving to catch each other's attention. 

Hermione was the first to spot Molly fighting her way through the crowd toward Ginny, and she smiled at the sight. She watched as they embraced and Molly fussed over her daughter’s hair before giving her another tight squeeze and passing the girl off to Arthur, who had just arrived—wheezing—behind her. Once her arms were free, Molly seemed to scan the crowd once more, only stopping when she caught Hermione’s gaze and a wide smile split her face. 

“Come here, you!” she shouted across the crowd. Hermione laughed softly and elbowed her way past several reunions to get to the Weasley matriarch, and soon she found herself scooped into a warm, surprisingly strong hug. 

“Good gracious, I couldn’t be prouder if I’d birthed you myself,” Molly beamed, slackening her arms just enough for Hermione to look her in the eye. “I am so happy for you, dear! So very happy.” And she pulled her close once more for another bone cracking hug. 

“S’cuse me,” said a deep, laughing voice from behind her, and when Molly had had her fill, Hermione turned to face Harry. He was beaming down at her, an excited, squirming Delphi in arms, her black curls shoulder length now, and bobbing from side to side over her round, dimpled cheeks. 

“Harry!” Hermione cried, and then catapulted herself at the man and child, wrapping her arms around the both of them and raining kisses down on the top of the little girl’s head. 

“Delphi, darling! Oh, sweet girl! I’m so happy to see you!”

“Do I get a kiss too?” Harry asked, amused. Hermione gave him a look but stretched onto her toes to kiss his cheek all the same. Against her lips, his beard was warm from the sun and much softer than she had expected. 

“Now,” she said, “hand over my god-daughter or I’ll be forced to hurt you.” 

Harry’s smile faltered for only a moment before he shook his head. 

“Not yet,” he told her. 

“Harry,” Hermione frowned up at him, pretending to be severe. “I know a great many hexes that will make you rue the day you kept her from me.” 

“Look—" he said, ignoring her threat entirely. “I want you to take a couple deep breaths, alright? And please, don’t freak out.” 

“Harry, what are you—" 

He stepped aside before she could finish her sentence, and her eyes fell on a man and a woman standing beside him. They were average height, the man slightly taller than the woman with greying brown hair and smiling hazel eyes. Beside him, the woman, whose hand he held, seemed to quiver with emotion, her chestnut curls twisted behind her into an elegant knot. 

“Darling,” she said, holding her arms out wide. 

“Mum?” asked Hermione. “Dad?” And then she fainted dead away. 

  
  



	23. Chapter 23

_ 16 July 1999 _

_ The Granger Residence  _

It was not the home Hermione had grown up in—a young couple with two small children lived there now, and had painted over the doorframe where Hermione’s height had been marked each summer—but the presence of her parents made the new house just as wonderful as she remembered her childhood home being. Each morning when she woke, it was to the smell of coffee. Her father still needed it to wake up properly, and her mother woke each morning to brew it fresh for him. Every afternoon, her mother served tea, just as she had on her days off when Hermione was small. And every evening, they gathered in the family room to read a chapter of a classic. Shakespeare, Machiavelli, Homer, Dante, Wilde, Burns, Shelley, Bronte, and Austen. Their tastes were as varied as their conversations afterward. 

Still, despite the familiar rituals of a past life, there was a tension that still hung in the air over all of their heads. It was a subtle thing, only half noticed if one squinted in its direction, but it was there, and when it manifested itself, it was palpable. For the most part, it lay dormant, but at certain times, when Hermione would allude to the life she had led while her parents were away, or the war, or to the house they had lived in before… well, it hadn’t been easy on any of them. 

One evening, after her father had gone to bed, Hermione had worked up the courage to broach the subject with her mother. 

_ “Mum?” she asked.  _

_ “Yes, love?” Helen closed her book and set it on her lap, peering over jewel encrusted reading glasses in her daughter’s direction.  _

_ “Are you and daddy very angry with me?”  _

_ “Angry?” the older woman looked confused for a moment, but the longer the question sat between them, the more she seemed to understand.  _

_ “We’re not angry, dear.”  _

_ “But I— what I did was so hard. The hardest decision I’ve made in my life. I thought I was doing what was right, and it hurt so much, Mum. I knew, I knew you wouldn’t have agreed to it, but I thought I knew best.” Her voice broke. “And if I were you, I’d be livid.”  _

_ Helen sighed and took off her glasses, setting them aside along with her book before leaning forward in her seat and propping her elbows atop her knees.  _

_ “Hermione, we’re not angry with you… It’s hard to describe what we are. It sounds so cliche to say that we’re disappointed, but that’s part of it. Not all of it, but a part.”  _

_ Hermione felt tears prick at her eyes and bit her lip, the sharp little jolt of pain keeping the them from spilling over.  _

_ “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice barely audible now.  _

_ “Thank you, darling… But it’s not just about the choice you made. I’m not sure you can understand what it felt like remembering what had happened… or how it felt to realize how much you’d kept from us. It was… difficult.”  _

_ “Oh, mum.” Hermione raised her hand to her mouth now, pushing the back of it hard against her lips, as if she could keep in her sobs.  _

_ “We love you so much, Hermione,” Helen continued, “And we were so disappointed when we realized you hadn’t been able to trust us. It felt as if we’d failed.”  _

_ “Mummy, you didn’t fail,” Hermione cried, sounding frantic. “I didn’t want to see you hurt. I was trying to protect you!”  _

_ “But you see, love, we may just be Muggles, but we’re your parents, too. It was our job to protect  _ you _.”  _

They had talked deep into the night, and by the end, they had understood one another a little better. Not only that, but they had been able to share the bits of their lives that had been missed in the intervening years. They spoke about Harry and Delphi and the Weasleys. About the practice her parents had started and then abandoned in Australia, and the feeling they had lived with for two years, that they were forgetting something important. 

_ “And Harry explained? About why I couldn’t come and get you sooner?”  _

_ Helen nodded, smiling sadly.  _

_ “Death Eaters. He told us they were targeting Muggle families still, and that your police had found signs of them at the old house. He told us the lot had been captured now, though.”  _

_ “They have,” Hermione said with relief. Harry was on the team that brought the last of them in.”  _

_ Helen gave Hermione a look that made her blush. “He’s a clever young man, that Harry. And quite dedicated to you, it would seem.”  _

_ “He’s very clever,” she answered. _

In the end, they had left the conversation feeling better than they had when they’d begun. And perhaps it was only her, but the following morning, the smell of coffee hadn’t filled her with dread. Now, while it still seemed that the trust they had worked a lifetime to build between them had cracks large enough for her to step through, it felt as if they were closing, millimeter by millimeter. At the very least, she felt that she could resume her life in some capacity—which was what had brought her to this. 

“Dammit,” she swore, peering over her shoulder and into the full length mirror behind her. She’d been through four dresses at least, and still nothing fit. She knew it had been a long while since she’d had occasion to really dress up, but she hadn’t realized her chest had grown quite  _ that _ much in the past two years. Sighing, Hermione discarded the dress and reached for another. This one looked a bit less fitted at the top, and she thought that might be her saving grace. Why she hadn’t thought to plan her outfit for the evening sooner was beyond her, and she could only suppose it had to do with readjusting to being someone’s child again. She had been on her own for such a long time now that answering to someone seemed a whole new experience.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit.” 

“Everything alright in here?” Hermione jumped at the sound of her father’s voice as he appeared in the doorway, a cup of tea in his hand. 

“Sorry,” Hermione said, grimacing. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” 

“Fashion trouble?” said Frank, ignoring her apology and stepping into the room. 

Hermione nodded with a frown. “It seems my wardrobe hasn’t been expanded recently… and certain portions of my anatomy have.” 

It was her father’s turn to grimace now, but he walked toward her wardrobe all the same, peering inside and rifling through the outfits there. 

“Are you married to the idea of a dress?” he asked. 

Hermione shrugged. 

“I want to look nice,” she said. 

“I’d wager the boy would think you look nice in a guinea sack.”

“Still.” 

Frank made a noncommittal noise and continued his search, pausing on a silk sheath dress she didn’t recognize. 

“You know,” he said, his voice thoughtful, “I’m not much one for fashion, but your mother always seemed to ask my opinion, so I like to think I’ve developed an eye for things.”

“I’m sure you’re brilliant at it,” Hermione agreed. 

“Yes, well. Point being, I think you ought to give this one a try.” He pulled out the dress, a knee length number in a bright shade of blue. 

Hermione’s nose wrinkled instinctively, and her father rolled his eyes. 

“Isn’t it a bit… bright?” she asked. 

“You and your mum look good in this kind of thing. Comes down to coloring. Or something.”

“I don’t even remember buying this dress,” Hermione told him. 

“You wouldn’t. I bought it for mum before you were born. But fashion’s cyclical, isn’t it?” 

Hermione studied the dress. The cut wasn’t modern, but her father was right, it was fashionable enough, with a boatneck collar and little else to tell its age. 

“I’ll try it,” she agreed, and Frank nodded, satisfied. 

“I’ll see you down stairs in a few then,” he said, and left her alone with the dress. 

He was right, it looked lovely, and it fit her to boot. 

It took only a couple minutes more for Hermione to empty a bottle of Sleekeazy’s over her hair and to add some mascara to her lashes, and once that was done she was ready. 

Both of her parents were waiting in the sitting room, Helen with one of her ever present books on her lap, and Frank with his cup of tea and a crossword puzzle. 

“All ready?” asked her father, and Hermione nodded. 

“Don’t I look it?”

“Of course you do,” her mother said, eyeing the dress Hermione wore. “Now that looks familiar.” 

“I found it in my things.” 

“Well, I’m glad. The bloody thing hasn’t fit me for ages. And the color suits you very well.” 

“That’s what I said,” her father interjected. 

“Of course you did.” Helen looked fondly over at her husband. “You’ve an eye for that sort of thing.” 

“You two haven’t changed a bit,” Hermione said with a laugh, and then glanced at the clock above the mantel. 

“Still got a few minutes yet, darling,” her mother chimed, and Hermione blushed. 

“Where are you headed tonight anyhow?” Helen continued. “Someplace fancy?” 

Hermione shrugged. “It’s a surprise. Considering his last surprise made me faint, I’m not sure what to expect.” 

“Boy’s putting me to shame,” grumbled her father, penciling something into his puzzle. “Your mother’ll be expecting me to serenade her in the middle of Harrods next time I turn around.” 

“Rubbish,” said Helen, winking at Hermione. “I’d settle for Covent Garden.” 

“Dad singing... Now that would be a surprise.” 

“Ladies,” he said, setting his puzzle down and leaning back in his chair, “be nice.” 

“We’re always nice, Frank.” 

“I’m only teasing, Daddy.” 

“Hmmph.” 

A knock at the door sounded then, and Hermione jumped. 

“I’ve got it,” her father said, standing and making his way toward the hallway which led to the front door. 

“Oh, that’s not necessary—' Hermione began, but she was waved off as he made his way out of the room. 

“Let him have his fun,” her mother advised. “This is the first time a boy’s come calling at the house for you, you know.” 

Hermione made a face. “I’m aware.” 

“Hello, Mr Granger.” Harry’s voice came floating from the hallway into the living room, cheery and slightly uncertain. 

“Harry,” her father answered. “Can I help you?” 

“Dad!” Hermione shrieked, rushing into the hall as her mother’s laughter chased her out. 

Her father was standing in front of the door, and when he turned to look at Hermione his face split into a wide grin. “Only teasing,” he said, and Hermione gave him a pleading look. 

“Thanks for getting the door, Daddy,” she said. 

“Daddy,” Frank echoed, turning to Harry. “You’ll find with time, son, that they only call you that when they’re trying to get into your good graces.” 

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, and his expression was part confusion, part panic. 

“Leave them be, Frank!” called her mother from the other room, and her father sighed theatrically. 

“Right. You two enjoy yourselves. Not too much, but an appropriate amount that you won’t mind telling us about later.” 

Harry blushed pink across his cheekbones and Hermione’s eyes went wide with mortification. 

“Frank!” 

“Coming dear!” He leaned down and planted a kiss on Hermione’s forehead before winking at Harry and retreating to the other room. 

“Let’s go,” Hermione said, voice strangled as her cheeks burned. 

Harry cleared his throat and nodded. 

“See you soon, Mr Granger. Mrs Granger.” 

Hermione grabbed his hand before he could say anything more, dragging him forcibly onto the front step. Before the door swung shut behind them, Hermione could hear her mother’s voice. 

“—Such a polite young man.”

“God,” Hermione breathed once they were alone. “Wherever we’re going, I hope there’s a stiff drink waiting.” 

0-0-0-0-0-0

_ Diagon Alley _

They apparated into the Alley hand in hand. Harry’s heart was beating wildly as they made their way through the evening crowd of robed witches and wizards. They all stared, of course, though Harry was relieved to see that the object of their attention was not him but the the ridiculously attractive woman at his side. Hermione looked outstanding, and when he had seen her in the entryway of the Granger’s home, he had lost his train of thought completely. The cerulean of her dress made her skin glow, and her long brown hair hung in sleek curls down her back. Add to that the fact that the outfit hugged her every delectable curve… well, it was a very good thing he hadn’t been expected to carry on a conversation with her parents. 

“Are we nearly there?” Hermione asked, her hand tightening in his as she glanced around them furtively. 

“Just a bit farther,” said Harry, and then he shot a scowl at a middle aged wizard who had stopped haggling with the proprietor of Eeylops Owl Emporium to leer in Hermione’s direction. 

“Everyone’s staring,” Hermione whispered, and he watched as she noticed the man staring at her and gave him a look that would have caused even the most lecherous of men’s nethers to wither. 

“I promise, we’re almost there. Just a few more yards,” Harry assured her, catching sight of the place he was taking her and sighing in relief. “Here we are.”

They came to a stop in front of Flourish and Blotts, and he heard Hermione make a small, excited noise at his side. 

“Here?” she asked, and he smiled in response. 

“Let's go in.” 

“But the sign says they’re closed,” Hermione protested, sounding disappointed. Harry only arched a brow in her direction and reached for the handle of the door, twisting it and pushing it inward to admit the both of them. 

“Harry, what are you doing?” she whispered, looking around as if to check that no one had noticed him breaking and entering. 

“Come and see,” Harry invited, and then stepped through into the shop, holding tight to Hermione’s hand and drawing her through behind him before he shut the door again. His stomach did a little flip at the tinkling of the bell. 

“Ah, Mr Potter. You’re right on time,” came a rasping voice to their left. 

“Mrs Blott,” Harry said, spotting the tall, grey haired woman sitting in a chair at the end of the nearest shelf. “Thank you for waiting, and for all your help.” 

“It’s our pleasure,” the woman said, smiling. “And you must be Miss Granger. What an honor.” She stood and extended a hand toward Hermione, who let go of Harry and shook it with a bemused look on her face. “I’ve seen your name on more invoices than I can count. It’s lovely to finally make your acquaintance.” 

“Likewise,” Hermione responded. 

“Wonderful.” Mrs Blott turned to face Harry again. “Everything is set up, just as we discussed. The shop is yours.”

“What?!” Hermione practically screeched her voice was so high, and Harry smiled at the reaction. 

“For the evening,” Harry clarified. “Thank you Mrs Blott. We’ll take good care of it.” 

The older woman smiled in response and then left through the front door. Harry listened as she locked up behind her, leaving him alone with Hermione in the store. He took a moment to watch her, the way she bit her lit as she stared in wonder around the empty shop, her eyes devouring the shelves upon shelves of books she was itching to explore. 

“Harry, how on earth did you manage this?” she breathed, half exasperated and half impressed. 

He shrugged. “Turns out the Goblins are more than just caretakers for older accounts. They build wealth as a hobby, and they’ve had free reign over the Potter accounts for almost twenty years now. Even after I paid to rebuild the bank, there’s more gold than even my grandchildren will be able to spend.” 

Hermione arched her brow in his direction, less impressed by far than Ron had been when Harry had mentioned the news to him. 

“So not only are you wildly famous, you’re also independently wealthy?”

“Doesn’t seem very fair, does it?” 

Hermione shrugged. “It seems like a great deal of responsibility,” she answered, and then turned back to inspect the shelves. 

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. She was right. Being the caretaker of so much wealth was insane at his age, but he didn’t have much of a choice, so what he was left with was deciding where to donate a great deal of the gold, and being able to make excessive gestures to the people he loved. 

“Nice though,” Hermione added at last, turning to face him with a smile as the worry in the pit of his stomach seemed to melt away. “As far as first dates go, I don’t think anyone could ever top it.” 

A slumbering beast in Harry’s chest seemed to rumble at the thought. As far as it was concerned, Hermione need never have a first date again. 

“Are you hungry?” he asked, before he could dwell on the thought any longer. 

“A bit. Have you rented a restaurant as well?” 

Harry laughed and shook his head, taking her by the hand again and relishing the warmth that emanated from her fingertips, dancing across the surface of his skin. He led her further back into the shop, behind several rows of shelves where there was usually a sofa and several end tables for patrons to use. Now, however, there was only a picnic blanket spread over the floor, heavy laden with food. 

“How—You know what, never-mind,” Hermione said, her laugh tinkling through the air like a caress. “I’ll just assume it had something to do with your excessive spending from now on.” 

“You have Molly to thank for all of this, actually,” Harry corrected. And though he did insist on paying her a caterer’s rate… which he had then quadrupled behind her back, Hermione didn’t need to know. 

“Is that Banoffee Pie?” Hermione asked, her eyes practically glowing as she dropped to sit on the blanket, folding her knees to the side. Harry was sure she didn’t notice the way her dress rode up her thigh when she did it, but he could hardly tear his gaze away from the smooth expanse of skin exposed there. 

They ate only briefly before Hermione was up again and leading him to one of the nearby stacks of books, where she proceeded to give an impromptu lecture about one of the Defense texts available there. Harry listened eagerly, enchanted by the way she looked when she was deep in thought, trying to translate her inner world into words. When she was done, she shook herself, as if she were waking from a dream, and the smile she gave him was radiant. 

“Thank you for letting me prattle, Harry,” she said affectionately. “When I was with—Well. I’m not used to someone letting me go on like that.”

Harry just took her hand again and brushed his thumb over the back of it. He heard her breath catch and remembered that she’d made the same noise when he had kissed her at Grimmauld Place. He wondered if he could make her do it again if he pushed her against one of the nearby bookshelves and wrapped his arms around her waist before leaning down to kiss her.  _ Don’t be a cad, Harry _ , he told himself, and refocused his gaze from her lips to her eyes, which were wide and fringed by dark lashes. 

“I like listening to you talk,” he said at last. “Besides, defensive theory is hardly likely to bore me.” 

“But if I were giving a speech on arithmancy?” she asked, and her expression looked vulnerable. 

Harry shrugged. “I imagine I’d understand about as much as you do when I go on about Quidditch… but that wouldn’t stop me from listening.” 

She glowed at his answer, and Harry had the strangest feeling he’d passed some sort of test before her hand was back in his and she was leading him toward the picnic again. 

They finished their meal amidst engaging conversation and heated looks that set Harry’s blood on fire as it coursed through his veins. They talked about Delphi, and about Teddy, who was walking now and an adorable terror. They talked about Harry’s work, and his ongoing training which had been put on hold when he had been placed on the task force in charge of tracking down the remaining Death Eaters. Now that it had been disbanded, he was back to having his arse handed to him by the head of the department several times a week. They talked about Hermione’s plans for the future: she was intent on working at the Ministry and had been invited by Kingsley to interview for a position the following Monday. She still hadn’t decided whether or not to go, though. With her parents so newly returned, she was afraid that a jump back into the Wizarding World would distance them further from her. 

“I don’t think your parents would be put off by you having a job,” Harry told her, thinking of the way her father had teased them earlier that night. 

“Maybe not,” Hermione acknowledged, “but what about if I decided to move out and into a Wizarding community? They’re Muggles, Harry, and that means that they can’t really be a part of our world. I have to be in theirs, and the more of my life that’s based around the Ministry, or magical society, the less time I’ll have to spend with them. I’ve only just got them back, and I’d hate for things to stay the way they are.”

Harry thought for a moment. He knew why she was worried. She’d sent him a tearstained letter the day after she’d spoken with her mother, outlining her struggles and fears. The last thing she wanted was to lose her parents again, but Harry had a feeling they wouldn’t be so easily shaken off. 

“They love you,” he said, his voice soft. “And no matter what you decide, I think they want you to be happy. That’s what I want for Delphi.” 

Hermione sighed and leaned into him, wrapping her arms around his middle and pressing her ear to his chest. 

“You’re right,” she said. “I just can’t help but worry.” 

“Well, I think I might be able to help you with that.” Harry let his hand begin to trail up and down her spine, fingertips light over her dress as he felt the silken fabric warm to his touch and the slight bump where her bra clasped in the back. She let out a contented sigh against his chest, and Harry grew hard at the sound. The feel of her hand trailing up and down his side didn't help matters either. 

“Is that so?” she asked. 

Harry responded by tilting her chin up and leaning down to press his mouth to hers. 

Kissing her would never grow old, he thought—or unexciting. Her lips were lush and full and pliant beneath his own, and as she crushed herself to him, he could feel her breasts heaving against his chest with every breath she took. He ached to let his hand trail from her cheek down her neck and onward to the supple flesh beneath the bodice of her dress. But Merlin, he was a coward. He wouldn’t risk scaring her off when she was here and she was pressing herself to him so sweetly, her mouth parting beneath his to allow him entrance as she made gorgeous, content, pleading noises that spurred him on. He wouldn’t risk her stopping her hand from wrapping around the back of his neck to hold him just so, or keep her from clutching his upper arm as if he were keeping her afloat in a stormy sea. 

“Harry,” she breathed, breaking the kiss and pulling away just barely so that she could look him in the eye. Her pupils were wide with desire and her lips pink and swollen. Harry throbbed at the sight. “Please,” she begged with that stunning mouth. “Touch me.” 

  
_ Hell _ , he thought,  _ Maybe I can risk it after all. _


	24. Chapter 24

_ Flourish and Blotts, Diagon Alley _

_ 17 July 1999 _

“Touch me,” she demanded, and Harry wouldn’t— _ couldn’t— _ deny her. He leaned her back against the blanket, sweeping the remains of their picnic aside with a flick of his wrist and a pulse of wandless magic that he hadn’t realized he had summoned. He braced himself above her, letting one of his hands skate over her shoulder and down her side to her hip before trailing back up again. He kissed her with wild abandon and she participated with the same level of fervor, her fingers combing through his hair before she clenched her fist and he felt a sharp tug at his scalp that sent a tingle down his spine. 

Harry moaned into her mouth. Hermione nipped at his lip in response before releasing his hair and grabbing his hand instead. His heart raced at a gallop as she guided it from her waist, upward _ — _ up to settle, open palmed, over her breast. 

The sound he made at the feel of her in his hand was, frankly, embarrassing. Thankfully, Hermione didn’t seem to notice, and Harry was so singularly overwhelmed by the soft, pliant, wonderful bit of her beneath his fingertips, that he couldn’t bring himself to care. Merlin, she was perfect. Just large enough to fill his hand, her nipple pebbled beneath the silk of her dress and pressed hard against his palm. He squeezed his hand lightly, and Hermione sighed into his mouth. 

_ Fuck _ , he thought, his cock jumping at the little sound and straining against his trousers. How was she so perfect? She was fire in his hands, warming and burning him all at once. He thought he could stay here, against her, for the rest of his life and be a happy man. How had he never realized what kissing her would mean? How it would feel? It was like holding a wand for the first time, feeling the magic course through him and shift something inside of him so monumentally that his life changed direction completely in the space of a heartbeat. 

And then, just when he thought things couldn’t be more perfect, Hermione made another whimpering sound and hooked her leg over his thigh, turning just slightly so that his hip could settle on the ground beside her and she could pull him flush against her. 

_ Fuck, fuck, fuck _ . She was warm. Everywhere. He could feel the heat radiating off of her through the linen of his trousers and the silk of the dress she wore, which was now so high on her thighs that he could almost,  _ almost _ imagine he saw the color of her knickers. 

He closed his eyes tight, his heart racing and his breath coming so quick he thought he might pass out. As if she could read his thoughts, Hermione broke their kiss, panting against his cheek for a moment before she returned her hand to the back of his and pressed it into her breast again. His eyes flew open at the sensation.

“Harry, please,” she begged, her gaze barely focused and her pupils blown wide with desire. He nodded, still watching her as he squeezed his hand again and she bit her lip, nodding. And as if there were a magnet between them, their lips met again. He stroked her through her dress, his palm rubbing over her pebbled nipple as the tips of his fingers found the strip of soft flesh above the line of fabric. He wanted to feel it forever, in every way possible. Without conscious thought, he broke away from her mouth, trailing kisses down her cheek and onto her neck. She smelled so sweet, and he wanted to taste her. He opened his mouth, letting his tongue dart out just briefly before sucking at the soft bit of flesh where her shoulder met the column of her throat. When he had finished, there was a pink mark left behind that made him swell with pride. He moved lower, nuzzling over her exposed collar bone for a moment before both of her hands found purchase in his hair and pushed him lower, until his cheek was pressed to her chest. He could see his hand still on one of her breasts, his fingers now circling its peak through the bright blue fabric of her dress as she arched her back sweetly and bit her lip. 

“Hermione,” he breathed, “God, you’re so fucking perfect.” 

“Mmmm,” she moaned, and then began to tug at the neckline of her bodice, pulling it down until she was nearly spilling out of the dress. 

_ Christ, _ Harry thought,  _ she’s not wearing a bra.  _ She was going to kill him, he was certain. 

“Zipper,” she ordered, and then pulled him back up to kiss her. 

Harry was, perhaps, not the most experienced of men—he had kissed exactly two girls before Hermione—but he was nothing if not eager, and so he didn’t wait to be told again before helping her onto her side and letting his fingers find the zipper at her back. He tugged gently at first, and then, at Hermione’s impatient noise, more quickly. When the zipper reached the small of her back she pulled away just enough to slip the sleeves of her dress down her shoulders.

“There,” she said, when the silk just barely shielded her from his gaze, and then she smiled up at him, biting her lip self-consciously as a pretty blush suffused her cheeks. 

“Can I—" He didn’t know how to finish his question. What did he want? To finish baring her breasts so that he could see them? Touch them? To take her dress the rest of the way down and look at the rest of her? How often had he fantasized about her? Not just since they had decided to pursue a relationship, but since he’d first realized she was a girl in addition to being a friend? How many nights had he thought of  _ her  _ in the tent, pretending that he had no control over where his mind wandered during those secret, self-satisfying moments of solitude. When he should have been thinking of Ginny, whose face and body was it that he had imagined touching and kissing and stroking instead? 

“Yes,” she answered, and apparently she knew what he wanted, because Hermione drew him toward her, kissing him fiercely before breaking the contact and pulling him down to bury his nose in the soft, welcoming valley between her breasts. At the feel of something warm and hard pressing into his cheek, Harry opened his eyes. What he saw laying between her breasts made him ache with pride and desire. 

“You’re wearing my valentine’s gift.” His voice sounded hoarse. 

She smiled down at him. “I always wear it,” she said. 

Harry grinned, kissing the large opal at the center of the pendant, surrounded by intricate gold filigree and diamonds. He had found it in his family’s safe, in a large gold box with the name “Dorea Potter” inscribed on the underside. He’d had to consult his family tree before he’d realized Dorea Potter had been his grandmother and that the pendant would have belonged to her. He’d made up his mind at once to give the thing to Hermione. There were plenty of other jewels in the vault for him to pass on to Delphi in the future, and this one… well, it reminded him of the girl he’d grown up with. Complex, beautiful, and of infinite worth. 

When he was done admiring the way his gift looked resting against her flesh, Harry turned his gaze to her breasts. They were all but exposed, heaving above the loosened line of her bodice, just a hint of color peeking out. Harry’s mouth watered. 

“I want to—" 

Before he could finish his request, Hermione had tugged the dress the rest of the way down, leaving the sleeves hooked over her elbows but baring the creamy, rose tipped peaks he’d been aching to see. 

“Holy Merlin on a cross,” Harry swore. Hermione laughed and leaned in to kiss him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. Her mouth teased his, her tongue darting out to trace the curve of his lower lip before he felt her take his hand again, pressing it to her bare breast. 

_ Shit, fuck, god-dammit, son of a—  _ he was going to come in his pants and embarrass himself completely.  _ Shit. Hagrid’s pajamas, Flobberworms, Cornelius Fudge, Aunt Petunia’s knickers. _

He managed to contain himself and breathed a sigh of relief against Hermione's mouth as his hand tightened reflexively over her. Hermione moaned at the sensation, and Harry broke the kiss, scooting down her body until his mouth was level with her chest again and he was raining hungry, opened mouthed kisses on the underside of her breasts. 

“Harry,” she breathed, her hands in his hair again the way he liked, guiding him until his mouth closed, open mouthed, over one of her tight, peaked nipples. She tasted like honey and cream and something sharp he couldn’t place. Something hot and fierce and overwhelming that made him want to drink her in. He let his tongue lave her pebbled peak once, twice, three times. She was arching her back and holding him against her as she cried out, and he was absolutely certain he had never tasted or heard anything sweeter in his life than this woman. 

He rolled her from her side to her back, intent on running his hands up her thighs until her tormenting dress was bunched around her waist. 

“Ouch!” 

Harry startled at the sound of Hermione’s pain, his mouth breaking away from her breast with a wet ‘pop’ as he jumped back, his heart racing. 

“What?” He asked, confused at first. “What’s happened.” 

“Damn,” she swore, and his gaze, which had remained unfocused at their separation, came back into focus. 

“Did I hurt you?” Harry asked, concerned. Bloody hell. His first time doing more than kissing her lips and he’d managed to cock it up. 

“What?” She asked, looking confused for a moment before shaking her head. “No,” she answered as she sat up, “it’s this damn book.” She lifted a heavy tome in one hand, glaring at it. “The bloody thing dug right into my back.” 

“Oh,” said Harry, relieved. “Good.”

“Good?” Hermione arched an eyebrow in his direction. 

“Not _ good _ ,” Harry clarified, realizing his error. “I mean, I’m glad it wasn’t me.” 

Hermione’s expression softened. “No, Harry, I rather enjoyed what you were doing.” 

And he felt himself blush so hard he thought he must look like a tomato. He had enjoyed it as well, to an unbelievable agree. He could still feel his cock aching in his trousers, the head wet with the very real proof of how much he’d enjoyed it. 

He looked back up at Hermione, and his gaze landed on her bare breasts again. It was then that she seemed to realize she was sitting, topless, in the middle of a bookstore. 

Her flush extended to the tops of her breasts, and Harry mourned for a moment as she pulled the fabric back up, settling the sleeves at the edges of her shoulder and reaching behind her to do up the zipper. 

Harry bit his lip. As much as he hated the fact that their encounter was over, he thought it was probably wise. Flourish and Blotts wasn’t exactly where he’d imagined making love to her for the first time, and at the rate they had been going, he couldn’t imagine that had been very far off. He looked around them, realizing that their picnic was currently decorating a lower shelf of books and hoping that there was nothing too expensive that he would have to replace there. 

“I’ll clean this all up,” he said, looking back up at Hermione. She was standing now, her dress back to ending modestly at her knees, and the rest of her looking thoroughly snogged. “Why don’t you pick out a few books for us to take with us, and I’ll meet you at the register in ten minutes?” He’d need the time to let his still unflagging erection calm the hell down.

“Okay,” she answered, smiling down at him. She hesitated for only a moment before leaning over to kiss him lingeringly on the lips. 

“I love you,” she said. 

His heart beat wildly and spread warmth from his chest to the tips of his fingers and toes. 

“I love you too,” he answered, and then watched her disappear into the stacks of books surrounding them. 

0-0-0-0-0-0

_ Leadenhall Market, London _

_ 19 July 1999 _

The table where she sat was covered with crisp, white linen and three place settings of delicate looking flatware. It had been quite some time since they had dined in Muggle London, and she was unused to such a proper atmosphere. The only places she really frequented in the Wizarding World were pubs with heavy wooden tables and occasionally sticky bar tops. She was sure there were fancier places as well—Madam Puddifoot’s, for example—but neither Harry nor Ron ever suggested going to them, and she was largely content to follow their lead where food was concerned. If it hadn’t been for Rita Skeeter lurking around Diagon Alley when she had arrived their earlier, she very likely wouldn’t be in Muggle London at all. 

“Hermione.” She looked up at the sound of Harry’s voice, smiling at him instinctively as he sank down to sit beside her. 

“You got my note,” she said. “Sorry to change the venue so last minute.” 

“Not a problem,” Harry told her, leaning in to kiss her in greeting before adding, “Ron had to turn in a report. He’ll be a few minutes behind. It’s worth it to avoid that deranged beetle though.” 

At Harry’s mention of Skeeter, Hermione sneered. “She’s horrible. I don’t understand why her articles are still being published.” She hesitated before adding, “Did you see the gossip column yesterday?” 

Harry’s frown turned into a deep scowl as he nodded. “I sent a howler to _ the Prophet _ this morning from the office.”

Hermione felt her cheeks grow pink as she tried not to laugh. “Oh Harry, you didn’t.” 

“They can’t say things like that, Hermione. It’s not right.” 

“That’s very kind of you, but I’m quite used to that sort of... journalism. I’m not bothered by it.”  _ Not anymore.  _

“I’m going to put a stop to it,” Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard her, snapping open the menu on the table in front of him and glaring down at it. Hermione picked up her own menu, perusing it and raising her eyebrows when she saw the price of their salads. 

As they decided on their lunch orders, Hermione stole little glances in Harry’s direction. He was wearing a pair of close fitting grey trousers and a wrinkled, white button up shirt with long sleeves that had been rolled halfway up his bicep. She could hear his boots tapping beneath the table and stole a glance at those as well before smiling. Apparently, his only concession to entering Muggle London had been to remove the crimson jacket he wore on assignment, because the red laces of his boots and the golden belt buckle were both decidedly Ministry issue. It looked good on him, the adventurous looking outfit, close cropped beard, and long hair tied back with a piece of red string. And then there were his glasses, perched low on his nose as he peered through them to read the menu. Merlin, she wanted to kiss him when he looked like that. 

“So?” said Harry after less than a minute. He set the menu aside and leaned back in his chair, crossing one of his booted ankles over the opposite knee and looking completely relaxed. “How did it go?” 

Hermione felt her pulse begin to race at the question and then frowned. 

“Terrible,” she answered. “I fell apart completely.” 

Harry arched one brow in question. “I’m sure you didn’t,” he soothed. 

“There you two are!” Ron’s voice sounded from across the restaurant, and several irritated looking people glanced up at the sound, their eyes following the red head as he made his way toward Harry and Hermione. He was dressed in the same outfit as Harry, but where his uniform had looked disheveled and lived in, Ron’s was pristine. There were creases on his trousers, and his shirt sleeves remained buttoned at the wrist. Even his boots, which Hermione remembered being scuffed the last time she had seen them, were shining. 

“Ron,” acknowledged Harry lazily. The red head clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder in response before dropping to sit opposite Hermione. 

“I’m starved,” he said. “I hope this place serves real food.” 

“It’s lovely to see you too, Ronald,” Hermione said, arching one brow and staring him down. 

Ron barely looked penitent, but he did nod in her direction and respond, “Hello, ‘Mione.”

“So tell me where you think you went wrong,” said Harry, drawing her attention back to him, “and I’ll point out how impossibly exacting you’re being.” 

“Hermione did something wrong?” asked Ron, sounding amused. “That doesn’t sound like her.” 

“It was awful,” she said. “Kingsley interviewed me himself, and I thought I would die.” 

“What’s the position again?” Ron sat up a little straighter as he caught sight of the waitress heading toward them and gave the blonde woman what Hermione supposed must be his version of a dashing smile.

“House-elf liaison,” Hermione answered, noting as she did so that the blonde seemed to notice Ron’s grin and returned it while simultaneously thrusting her chest in his direction. Harry caught Hermione’s eye at that, and they shared an entertained sort of look. 

“That’s a job?” Ron asked, apparently capable of flirting across a room and carrying on a conversation at the same time. 

“It is now.” Hermione folded one of the cloth napkins on the table over her lap. 

“They created the post for her,” Harry interjected. “And yet, she’s apparently convinced she threw the interview.” 

“It was awful,” Hermione said, a nauseated feeling in the pit of her stomach as she remembered how she had felt sitting there. It had been worse than the N.E.W.T.s. 

Just then, the waitress approached. She took their orders, making eyes at Ron, who twinkled back at her and then asked her to bring him something “substantial” to eat. 

“Honestly, Ron, whatever would Millicent think?” Hermione asked once the blonde haired woman had gone. 

“I haven’t the foggiest,” Ron said, shrugging. “I haven’t spoken to her since March.” 

“What?” Hermione asked, surprised. “But I thought the two of you—”

“We broke up,” Ron supplied. “She’s a nice enough girl, but it would never have worked.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” Harry told her, and he looked in high spirits. “Our Ron’s become something of a ladies man at the ministry since Millie broke his poor heart.” 

“Really?” Hermione asked, thoroughly interested now. 

“Jealous, Harry?” Ron winked in Hermione’s direction. “Not worried Hermione’ll want me back now, are you?” 

Hermione thumped Ron on the arm for his cheek and glanced in Harry’s direction. His green eyes had darkened slightly, and he was looking at her with an entirely possessive expression. 

“Not in the least,” he answered. Hermione felt her cheeks warm and hid her smile behind a napkin, pretending to dab at the corners of her mouth. 

“Merlin, get a room if you’re just going to make eyes at each other. Some of us are trying to work up an appetite.” 

Hermione blushed again and watched as Harry—who looked pleased with himself—lifted a glass of water from the table and drank from it, keeping his gaze locked on hers all the while. 

“So, how did you manage to cock up an interview for a position created specifically for you to have?” Ron asked, grinning at the waitress again as she approached with a tray of appetizers Ron had ordered. 

“I was overwhelming,” Hermione confessed. 

“You? Overwhelmed?” 

“No,” Hermione corrected. “ _ They _ were overwhelmed. And I could see it happening, but I couldn’t stop myself from going on and on about how  _ passionate _ I was was for house-elf rights, and how much I thought I could contribute. I dragged out obscure laws from centuries ago and connected them to current laws and practices. I criticised the previous administration.” She took a sip of her own water, and Harry and Ron stared at her as if she weren’t making sense. She continued. “By the end of the interview, I realized I’d rambled all my time away, and neither Kingsley nor the head of the department really got to say much at all.” 

The boys seemed to wait expectantly for her to say more, and so she told them, “That’s everything,” and then buried her face in her hands. 

“Hang on,” said Harry as Ron grabbed a handful of his appetizer and stuffed it into his mouth. “You’re upset because you think you were… too prepared?”

Hermione sighed, exasperated with the both of them. How could they not understand? They’d lived with her for years; they more than anyone knew what she was like. 

“No,” she said, trying to be patient. “I just think it would have been better if I’d allowed some space for the _ Minister of Magic _ to get a word in edgewise.” 

“But if you knew what you were talking about, how could they penalize you for—”

“No one likes a know-it-all, Harry,” Hermione said softly, interrupting him. “I’m sure they thought I was a terror.”

“I like know-it-alls,” said Harry after several beats. 

Ron made a vomiting noise into his drink and waved down the waitress again for a refill. 

“That’s very kind of you,” Hermione said, “but I’m sure most people like their employees to be more…” she paused, searching for a word. 

“Likeable?” supplied Ron. 

“Git,” Harry said. 

“What? I’m only saying Hermione takes a bit of warming to is all. You were there first year.” 

Hermione knew she shouldn’t be offended, but the comment still stung.

“Shut your mouth, Ron,” Harry growled. 

The redhead huffed and sat back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. “Merlins balls, Harry. I know you’re in love with her now, but that doesn’t mean you can just re-write history. It took a bloody troll for us all to become friends. I’m not saying Hermione’s unlikeable, but to a pair of immature lads with more brawn than brains, she is a bit intimidating.” 

“Are you comparing Kingsley to a first year?” Harry asked, disbelieving. 

“Absolutely not,” Ron said. “You’re misunderstanding on purpose.” 

“I think I’m understanding just fine, thanks.”

“Boys,” Hermione said, exasperated as she made room on the table in front of her for the salad she spotted making its way across the room to her. 

“He started it,” Harry groused, and took his own meal from the wide tray that it was balanced atop. 

“Well, I’m finishing it.” Hermione speared a bit of artichoke before going on. “Ron’s right,” she said.

“Told you so,” he muttered. 

“And an arse,” Hermione added, glowering at him. 

“Very classy,” he commented. 

“The point is, I turned my interview into a veritable monologue, and though Kingsley knows me, it will be a miracle if the department head agrees to hire me. He’s liable to think I’m gunning for his job.” 

“I think Kingsley should be more concerned on that front,” said Harry, sounding more at ease now. 

“Bloody hell, they call this substantial?” 

Hermione peered at the sizable portion of steak and potatoes on Ron’s plate before rolling her eyes. 

“You can always order more,” Hermione offered. 

“For what they’re charging? It’s highway robbery. My mum would never serve something so puny.” 

“Then maybe your mum should have a restaurant,” Hermione said, and though she had meant it in rebuke, the thought gave her pause. 

“That’s not a bad idea,” said Harry. “The Goblins  _ have _ told me I’m supposed to keep my eyes open for investment opportunities.” 

“Mum’d never go for it,” Ron said through a mouthful of steamed carrots. “Woman’s too proud for charity.” 

But Hermione thought that with a bit of persuasion, and a plea from Harry to ‘help’ him get a business off of the ground… Well, Molly Weasley had never been a fan of sharing the reins. She imagined the matriarch would take on ninety-nine percent of the work, and with food as delicious as she was known to make, there was every chance the venture would be a success. Hadn’t Hermione just been mourning the lack of proper restaurants in the Wizarding World scant minutes before? And with Harry to back the place financially, there would be no risk to Molly or Arthur. 

“It’s worth asking at least,” said Hermione. “If its something she would enjoy, surely she’d at least consider it.” 

The rest of the lunch hour passed quickly. Ron did end up ordering a second meal, and the glimmer in the blonde’s eyes had faded as she had watched him devour it. When they were finished, Harry helped Hermione out of her chair, keeping a hand on her lower back as they made their way out of the restaurant and into the open air. Ron took his leave, leaning down to give Hermione a chaste kiss on the cheek and rolling his eyes when he caught sight of Harry’s hand on her.

“Later, you,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll get the job, even if you were a giant swot.” 

“Piss off,” Harry said as Hermione laughed, and Ron left with a twinkle in his blue eyes. When he had gone, Harry took her by the hand, guiding her down the street and around the corner to duck into a little alley behind the restaurant. 

“Do I get a kiss too?” he asked once they were alone, his eyes smoldering at her. It was unfair how attractive he looked in his uniform. And here she stood in a frumpy looking business suit she’d borrowed from her mum. She  _ really _ needed to go shopping sometime soon. 

She leant forward, pressing her lips against his. The kiss was soft at first, but when he groaned she pushed up eagerly onto the tips of her toes, wrapping an arm around his neck and opening her mouth to him. He took full advantage, and before she knew what was happening, her knee was at his hip and her formerly demure skirt had ridden up high on her thigh. She broke the kiss before it could go any further, and then brushed her lips against Harry’s cheek. 

“Go back to work,” she told him. “You’ll be late.” 

“Worth it,” he said with a grin, and then leaned down to kiss her again. 

  
  



	25. Chapter 25

The Granger Residence

31 July 1999

“Look. I know sometimes life is hard. We don’t always get what we want, do we? But when times are hard, we have two options. We can either throw in the towel, or we can push through and achieve some truly amazing results. You’re at a crossroads, you see. Now’s the time to make a choice and move onwards and upwards, not to wallow in distress or anger. So come now, show me that you won’t let this moment rule you.” 

“No!” 

Hermione sighed. “Open wide, darling. Its porridge, not poison.” 

“Won’t!” 

“Delphi, please. If you don’t eat, you’ll be hungry later, and godmummy Hermione has  _ plans _ .” 

“No, thank you.” 

Hermione sighed once more, setting the child sized spoon back in the bowl and pushing it toward Delphi. The girl sat at the Granger’s cozy kitchen table atop a stack of books, tied by the waist to the back of the chair with a scarf in lieu of an actual high chair, and shaking her head determinedly. With every shake, her wild, unbrushed curls swept over her cheeks and the tops of her shoulders. 

“Well, at least she’s polite,” came a voice from across the room. Her mother had come in unseen and was perched by the kitchen island on a tall stool, her elbows propped on the counter in front of her. “Your manners were atrocious at that age.” 

“I just don’t understand why she won’t eat,” Hermione said, ignoring her mother’s remark. “She loves porridge!” 

“Does she?” Helen wrinkled her nose. 

“Harry said so.” 

“Well, if Harry said so, it must be true.” 

Hermione looked up at her mother with an arched brow. 

“Have you tried a bit of sugar?” Helen continued. “I can’t stand the stuff without it. Maybe a touch of molasses.” 

“Are you trying to rot the poor child’s teeth out of her head?” asked Frank, sticking his head in through the doorway as he spoke and then sliding into the room. 

“Just because you like a bowl full of flavorless mush, doesn’t mean the rest of us don’t know how to brush our teeth after breakfast,” said Helen, dismissing her husband and moving to sit at the table beside Delphi. She leaned forward and smiled at the girl, patting her head affectionately before reaching for the bowl at the center of the table. “Do you like sugar, sweetheart?” She said, her tone high and familiar as she spoke to Delphi. Hermione had the vaguest memory of being a toddler as well, and of her mother speaking to her in exactly the same manner. 

“Helen,” warned Frank. “She’ll start bouncing off the walls if you give her that stuff.” 

“Nonsense. Two year olds are built for sugar.”

“Sugar,” Delphi repeated, and she was smiling now. 

Hermione watched helplessly as Helen deposited a teaspoonful of the stuff onto Delphi’s formerly nutritious breakfast. The girl smiled widely and grabbed her own spoon out of the bowl, bringing it to her mouth and licking it clean of the sweet stuff before scooping out another granule covered bite of oats. 

“There, see? Sugar.” Helen smiled in satisfaction and Frank, who had taken her spot by the kitchen island, rolled his eyes. 

“Where is Mr. Potter today, anyhow?” He asked, looking at Hermione now. “I was under the impression he would be lunching with us this afternoon.” 

And of course, that  _ had _ been the plan, but evil doers never slept, least of all on weekends. 

“Work owled him early this morning. He said he’ll most likely be done by two if we don’t mind pushing things back a bit.” Hermione watched for her parents reactions anxiously. Things had finally been going well between the three of them. Less awkward, at the very least. She attributed a huge part of that to Harry and Delphi and the glowing feeling they brought with them when they visited—which was happening now every other evening. The last thing she wanted now was for her parents to form a poor opinion of the man as a boyfriend or as a father. 

“Sounds lovely,” Helen said with a smile. “It’ll give us a chance to spoil this little one more flagrantly, in any case.” 

“I am still here, you know,” Hermione said, watching disapprovingly as her mother ladled another half teaspoon of sugar over Delphi’s now half devoured bowl of porridge. 

“Oh, and we should be worried about that, should we?” Asked her father, his voice teasing. 

“Hermione, you’ve really got to become more familiar with what this godmother business entails,” added Helen. “You’re supposed to spoil the baby, not smother it. Honestly, where did we go wrong?” 

“That’s quite enough,” said Hermione, snatching the silver spoon from her mother’s hand as she dipped it back into the sugar for another scoop. Helen and Frank both giggled like children, and Delphi, who watched them for several seconds before seeming to draw her own conclusions, began to let out great gales of full bellied laughter at the sound. 

“Harry’s going to have our heads if we send her back high on tea sweetener,” said Hermione. Delphi pushed the rest of her porridge away and began to wriggle precariously atop her stack of dictionaries, phone directories, and anthologies. Hermione flicked her wand to untie the scarf restraining the girl and levitated her onto her own lap. 

“Did you hear that, Helen? Our heads.” 

“A terrifying prospect. I’m positively quaking with dread.” 

“You two are the worst.” Hermione stood and Delphi wriggled in her arms, throwing herself backward until her godmother relented and set her on her feet in the kitchen. At once, the toddler darted away and toward the living room where her bag of toys had been deposited earlier that same morning by her father. 

“Mymee! Play!” she shouted over her shoulder. Hermione glanced back at her mother, and the older woman only waved her off before glancing at Frank and then falling into another fit of giggles. 

The rest of the morning was spent in motion. They played for just half an hour before Hermione was forced to cut the fun short, or muck up her schedule for the day completely. She packed several snacks and a lunch for Delphi—this time of foods she knew for certain the girl would eat—and added them to the already bulging bag filled with changes of clothes for the newly (and barely) potty trained toddler, and other trappings Delphi never traveled without. Thankfully, their errands today were in the wizarding world, and so Hermione shrank the bag and stuck it in her own purse, ready to be summoned and enlarged at the first sign of trouble. 

Their first stop was Grimmauld Place. Hermione made her way through the floors, waving her wand this way and that and tidying as Delphi followed with a toy wand Hermione had given her the week before. The little girl swished the short stick from side to side, imitating Hermione as the little toy vacillated between emitting bubbles, twinkling stars, and miniature prancing unicorns which ran off in every direction, disappearing only when they bumped into something. 

“Lovely,” Hermione told the child, who preened and then waved her little wand around so forcefully that it flew out of her hand and hit the wall. 

After number twelve, they took the Floo to The Burrow, where preparations for the evenings affair were already well underway. Molly had broken out the giant white marquee again, and it dominated the orchard. Hermione, with Delphi trailing behind her and pointing out every shrub along the way, made her way into the tent in search of the redheaded matriarch. Instead, all she found was Ginny sitting astride Theo Nott, her hands in his hair and his hands up her shirt. 

“Christ Jesus,” Hermione swore, turning quickly and scooping up Delphi so that she couldn’t see. “Sorry! I didn’t see anything! Only, do you know where your mum is?” 

Theo murmured something Hermione didn’t hear, and Ginny giggled. 

“No,” the other girl said. “Probably in the kitchen.” 

“Right. See you later tonight then,” Hermione acknowledged without turning back around, and then she marched straight into the house. As it happened, she did find Molly in the kitchen. 

“Is Ginny still snogging her boyfriend out there?” the older woman asked. Hermione blushed, and Molly made a disapproving sound. “Well, just two more minutes and I’ll put a stop to it. I’m not sure I like that boy.” 

“He’s decent enough,” said Hermione after clearing her throat, and then passed Delphi into Molly’s waiting arms. 

“All the same, he reminds me a bit too much of someone I used to know.” 

Hermione remembered what Molly had told her the summer before, on the night she and Ron had ended their relationship. 

“I don’t think he has those sorts of sympathies. At least, I’ve never heard him say anything,” Hermione assured. 

Molly made an noncommittal noise and smiled brightly at Delphi. “And how are you, my little love? Has daddy been giving you everything you want? He should, you know. Merlin, you’re an angel.”

“Hi Granny,” said Delphi in response. “Daddy work.” 

“That’s right, poppet. Daddy’s at work with Uncle Ron. But did you know today is Daddy’s birthday? Would you like to help Granny make Daddy a cake for his party?” 

“Cake! Want cake!” 

Molly laughed. “Then cake you shall have,” she promised. Hermione tried to do a quick calculation to see how much sugar that would be in one day before dismissing the idea and deciding that for today, she really didn’t care. 

“Molly,” she said as she helped pull down mixing bowls and measuring cups for the baking. “Would it be terribly inconvenient for you if I were to run to Diagon Alley for an hour or so, and leave Delphi with you? I haven’t had a chance to pick up Harry’s birthday present you see. It’s just waiting at the shop.” 

“Inconvenient? Do I look like the sort of woman who would be inconvenienced by a single child in my kitchen?” 

Molly shot her a half exasperated look and Hermione grinned. “Thank you,” she said. “I shouldn’t be more than an hour. I can help setting up when I get back.” 

“Go on then,” Molly ordered, and then levitated Delphi onto the counter where she could help to mix the batter that was currently assembling itself. Hermione dropped a kiss on the child’s forehead and obeyed. 

Diagon Alley was crowded. It always was on weekends in the Summer. Hermione pushed her way through the throngs of people quickly and made her way to the shop where Harry’s gift was being held. She thanked the proprietor profusely for wrapping it, and then stowed it away in her handbag. 

Out on the street again, she let herself watch the crowd of people for a moment, her gaze skating over the families she knew would be starting their back to school shopping. She spotted two different muggle families there, each with an eleven year old and accompanied by an official looking witch or wizard. She smiled, remembering her first trip to Diagon Alley. Her parents had been awed, and the ministry witch escorting them had delighted in playing the tour guide. 

“Hermione Granger.” 

She froze. Her back stiffened. She felt her wand pressed tightly inside of her fist. 

“You,” she said, whirling around to face the blonde witch in emerald green robes. “Stay away from me. I’ve nothing to say to you.” 

“Not even to keep me from telling the world everything I know about dear Harry and the muggle girl he’s ruining?” 

“You bitch,” Hermione hissed, and her wand was out and pressed into Rita Skeeter’s abdomen before the beetle could say another word. 

“I’ll have you arrested,” the blonde spat. “And then I’ll tell the world about—” 

“About what?” Hermione asked, her voice a low, dangerous dare. “You know  _ nothing _ . And you’ve no  _ proof _ . All you have is the bitter ramblings of a washed up old hag. I will bury you, Rita. If you so much as print Harry’s name, I will put you so deep underground they’ll never find the pieces.”

“I don’t believe you,” Skeeter breathed as the crowd moved around them, not noticing Hermione’s wand or the reporter’s wild eyes. 

“Then believe this,” Hermione hissed, “I love that little girl more than I’ve ever loved another human being in my life. I would do anything,  _ anything _ to protect her. And if I find that her name is being bandied about in the  _ Prophet _ with wild, unsubstantiated claims attached to it… you won’t have to track me down again Rita. I’ll find you. I’ll come into your house while you’re sleeping, and I will make you  _ deeply _ regret crossing me before I end you.” 

Skeeter stood stone still, the pulse point on her neck thrumming and her eyes wide with fear. 

“Do you understand me, Rita? Or do I need to repeat myself?” 

The woman’s eyes widened even further and her lips pressed into a tight line before she said, “I understand,” her voice hoarse. 

Hermione stepped back, her wand slipping into her pocket again unseen. 

“Good,” she said, and then left the witch standing in the street. 

0-0-0-0-0-0

The Burrow

31 July 1999

Harry had barely made lunch with Hermione and her parents that afternoon, arriving in his work uniform and a layer of sweat and dirt that he hadn’t had time to wash off. Gratefully, the Granger’s hadn’t seemed to mind, though the waiter at the restaurant they had met at had shot him several disapproving looks during the meal. Hermione’s mother and father had delighted in turning the lunch into a celebration, ordering a chocolatey dessert and insisting on singing to Harry as it was presented. Hermione had joined in, and Harry had relished the high sweetness of her singing voice. It wasn’t something he had the opportunity to hear often. Even Delphi joined in, and though her rendition of “Happy Tu-tu” was perhaps not the most easily understood, it was appreciated and fawned over. 

When the meal had ended, Harry had hugged both of Hermione’s parents goodbye with a warm glow in his chest. Being with them was nearly as easy as being with the Weasleys, and ever since the awkwardness of retrieving Hermione for their date weeks ago, the older couple had taken to treating Harry much the same as they did Hermione. 

Afterwards, Harry had kissed Hermione goodbye and taken Delphi to the Burrow for a nap. Hermione would join them when the party began, but Harry had promised Ron a game of Quidditch. Unfortunately, the orchard where they normally played was taken up by the great white marquee Molly had taken to using for every large gathering. Harry had showered and changed into a spare set of clothes he kept at the Weasley’s, and then they had played chess instead. Ginny had joined them at one point when Theo had taken himself to the loo, but the visit had been short lived and when the dark haired slytherin had emerged she had jumped out of her seat and joined him for a trek up the stairs. Harry tried hard not to imagine why they could be going up there, because frankly, what Ginny did with her boyfriend was none of his business. 

Finally, the guests had begun to arrive. Neville had arrived first, and by the way he glanced up the stairs every so often during their conversation, Harry guessed that he was not as zen as Harry was about Ginny snogging Theo in her secluded bedroom. Soon after, the house was near to bursting. Hermione had slipped in beside Andromeda, pecking Teddy on the cheek and then sliding down to sit beside Harry on the sofa. 

“Alright, you lot,” Molly called as she emerged from the kitchen, platters of food hovering in the air behind her. “Out to the tent!” 

Everyone trooped together to the orchard. Bill and his family, Charlie with an unfamiliar young man’s arm draped around him, Ron with his date for the evening (a busty blonde who worked at St Mungo’s), Neville beside Ginny and Theo, Luna with George and Angelina. Even Percy had come for the evening, and was standing next to Kingsley and Minerva. Beyond that, several mates from Harry’s work had been invited, and the Granger’s had been brought by Floo. Arthur was monopolizing the both of them, but they didn’t seem to mind. 

The tent was glowing with little lights that twinkled overhead, and the pleasant hum of conversation as yet more people seemed to arrive. His birthday party was not as well attended as Bill’s wedding had been, but Harry did recognize every single surviving Gryffindor from his year, as well as several from Ginny’s. Even Oliver Wood was in attendance, though he seemed nonplussed and kept throwing dirty looks in Charlie’s direction. The older people seemed to congregate in one corner, thoroughly entertained by the babies and conversation with one another. Harry spent nearly half an hour there chatting with Andromeda, Neville, and Minerva. Neville had, apparently begun working as an apprentice under Professor Sprout the week before, and was animatedly relating the story of how he’d nearly been poisoned by a mature Venomous Tentacula. 

“Harry,” said a deep voice from behind him, and Harry smiled as he looked up at Kingsley, a glass of butterbeer in the older man’s hand. 

“Minister, it’s good to see you.” 

“I’ll never miss an opportunity to experience Molly’s hospitality,” said Kingsley. “Congratulations, by the way. Robbards told me you did excellent work this morning.” 

Harry blushed but was pleased to hear it. 

“And where is your Hermione this evening?” Kingsley continued. 

Harry let his gaze rove over the occupants of the tent until it landed on Hermione standing beside her parents and chatting animatedly with Percy. 

“She’s making sure her parents are comfortable,” he answered. 

“I look forward to seeing her at the office on Monday. So does Kettleburn, from what I’ve heard him say.” 

“Kettleburn?” Harry asked, surprised. The name was familiar but he couldn’t quite place it. 

“Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Animals,” Kingsley explained. “He used to teach at Hogwarts, but that might have been before you took the class. He came out of retirement for me, and thank Circe he did. The cretin handling the department before was barely worth the knuts that rounded out his pay each week.” 

“Care of Magical Creatures, that’s right,” Harry said, remembering. He’d seen the old man walking around outside sometimes when he’d visited Hagrid in first and second years. 

“He’s very hands off,” Kingsley continued. “I don’t think he has plans to stay for much longer, to be honest.” 

Harry filed the information away for later. He thought Hermione might be interested to hear it. 

“What about you, Harry? What are your plans?” Kingsley peered at him. They were almost the same height now, with the Minister just an inch or so taller, and Harry felt very grown up suddenly. 

“To learn lots and keep the bad guys from making too much of a mess, Minister.” 

“Kingsley,” the older man reminded, and then patted Harry on the back. 

“You’ve got quite the future in front of you, Harry. I can’t wait to see where it takes you. Happy Birthday.” And then he turned away, catching Minerva’s eye and winking before heading toward the food table. 

“Harry!” He looked up at the sound of his name and spotted Ron waving at him from the other side of the tent, his arm around the blonde he’d been flaunting all night. Beside them, Hermione now stood with Neville, and she was smiling in an unrestrained way that Harry knew meant she was content. 

She looked gorgeous tonight. She was wearing a new skirt, or at least one he had never seen before, because if he had seen it—and the acres of smooth, tanned leg below—he would certainly have remembered. It was short and pleated, and above it she wore a simple sleeveless blouse that tucked into her waistband and left just enough buttons undone that he could see a hint of the valley between her breasts. Harry felt his cock give an eager little twitch in his trousers and bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t know how, or when, but at some point tonight he was going to snog her senseless. 

He crossed to join them, stepping between Ron and Hermione and slipping his arm around her waist. His hand settled on her opposite hip, and she hummed contentedly as she leaned her head against him. 

“Harry, you’ve met Dahlia, haven’t you?” she asked, motioning with her other hand toward Ron’s date. The woman must have been at least twenty five, but she seemed happy to be on Ron’s arm. Whether it was due to his fame or the fact that he’d put quite a bit of muscle on his lanky form in the last year, Harry wasn’t sure, but he hoped for Ron’s sake it was his personality that had attracted the medi-witch. 

“I have,” he said. “Pleasure to see you again.” 

“Pleasure’s all mine,” said Dahlia, fluttering her lashes and grinning. 

“Enjoying yourself, mate?” asked Ron, his fingers idly stroking his date’s bare shoulder. The woman seemed to shiver and looked up at him with wide eyes. Harry bit the inside of his cheek again and looked down at Hermione, who had one brow raised at the scene and was sipping what looked like elf wine. 

“Absolutely. Loads better than this morning, for sure.” 

“What?” said Ron, a smirk on his face, “don’t you like being tossed across the room by angry old women?” 

“What?” Hermione looked up. “Who tossed you across a room?” 

“No one,” Harry soothed. Beside him, Ron laughed. “It was just an exceptionally strong shielding charm.” 

“That our dark wizard’s mum cast when she realized we were about to bust in. Harry didn’t have time to duck and got knocked on his arse.” 

“Yes, well,” said Harry, “good thing it’s a shapely arse then. I barely feel it now.” 

“Harry, you’ve got to be more careful,” Hermione chided. 

“That’s nothing,” said Ron. “You should have seen how disgusting his arm looked when it got dislocated.”

“ _ Dislocated _ ?” Hermione’s voice was shrill, and Harry threw Ron a dirty look. 

“Ron popped it back into place right away,” Harry assured her, trying to pull her back against him as she crossed her arms and stepped away so that she could glare at him properly. 

“Ron? You should have gone to hospital, Harry!” 

“No need,” said Ron, shaking his head. “Something that minor? We all know basic healing for a reason, Hermione.” 

“To save lives,” she hissed, “not to injure people further. What if there had been a fracture?” 

“There wasn’t,” said Harry, and he grabbed her hand to prevent her from drawing her wand and running a series of diagnostic charms she’d insisted on learning after they’d found Delphi. He pulled her against him, trapping her hands between them and grinning down at her. She scowled up in return, but it didn’t stop him from leaning down to whisper in her ear. 

“I’m fine,” he murmured, letting his lips brush the spot between her ear and her jaw. He felt her shiver in his arms. “I promise.” 

“You’d better be,” she said fiercely, and then pulled away again, keeping hold of his hand and squeezing it tightly. 

“If you two are quite done, I think it’s time for a little dancing,” said Ron, and he pointed his wand at the wizarding radio nearby, spinning the dials until a tune Harry recognized came on and Ron dragged Dahlia to the dance floor at the open center of the tent. 

Harry, who felt self-conscious for the first time in a while, looked down at Hermione to gauge whether or not she looked interested in dancing. Apparently, she was, because when Neville spoke up and asked her if she wanted to dance with  _ him _ , she smiled up at Harry, gave him a quick kiss on the lips, and then said yes. Harry watched as more couples filtered onto the floor. Molly with Frank, and Arthur with Helen. George and Angelina alongside Kingsley and Andromeda. The song on the radio was, thankfully, not overly sentimental, and the couples dancing looked as if they were having a great deal of fun. 

“Fancy a dance, you?” 

Harry smiled at Ginny when she held a hand out to him. “Where’s Theodore?” 

“Had to go early,” she responded. “Some family thing. Do you want to dance or not, Potter?” 

“As I seem to have been abandoned, I can’t see why not,” he told her, and then followed her. Dancing with Ginny turned out to be fun. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised—she had always been fun—but dancing with her seemed to break down walls that had been erected between them after she’d broken things off. When the song ended and Hermione came to retrieve him, he was laughing, his long hair a mess around his face and caught in his beard in some places. Ginny had fallen silent and seemed on the verge of saying something when she spotted the other witch. 

“Hermione,” she greeted, shaking her head slightly and then grinning. “I’ve been keeping him warm for you.” 

“Thanks,” said Hermione, and she sounded genuinely grateful. “Fancy dancing with me?” she then asked. 

Harry took her hand and spun her out and then back into his arms, and Hermione giggled. Ginny faded into the background as they danced, and it wasn’t until an hour later when Delphi came twirling onto the floor that he released the brunette witch and danced with his daughter instead. Hermione didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she was busy pulling an ancient looking wizarding camera out of her purse and taking photographs of the event. 

As the night came to an end and guests began to disappear, Hermione approached him again, slipping her hand into his and stepping close to whisper in his ear. 

“I haven’t had a chance to give you my present yet,” she told him. Harry’s whole body seemed to glow with warmth as she stepped yet nearer. 

“Don’t worry about it,” he told her, and stroked his fingers over her hip, loving the way she smiled at his touch. 

“Come with me,” she said, and then stepped just far enough away from him that she could tug at his hand. 

“Let me just get Del—”

“Molly’s got her. I ran through the bedtime routine with her already. I gave Delphi a kiss and told her you’d be by to do the same in a few minutes, but that after that you’d see her in the morning.”

“In the…” His voice trailed off, and he hated how confused he sounded. 

“The morning,” Hermione said again, and then she took a step toward him, pushed up onto the tips of her toes, and kissed him. Her mouth was hot and enticing—a sensual promise that if he were to do as she suggested, there would be many more drugging kisses in his immediate future. 

“Okay,” he said, voice hoarse, cock now standing at attention. “I’ll be right back.” 

“See that you are,” she whispered. “Your present needs unwrapping, Harry.” 

And then she smiled at him, a sexy, inviting smile that he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen on her lips before. God, he wanted her desperately. Now. In a variety of ways. But she stepped back and nodded toward where Delphi sat on Molly’s lap. Harry understood and took his first step away from her with a groan. He loved his daughter, but right now, the only thing he could think of was the present Hermione had made clear he would be getting in private tonight, and he wanted more than anything to find out what exactly it was.

  
  



	26. Chapter 26

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place 

31 July 1999

Number twelve was dark and still when they Apparated onto the front porch, hand in hand. Hermione’s stomach was doing somersaults, and she thought this might be more stressful than the time she’d accidentally side-alonged Yaxley to this exact location. 

Harry didn’t say anything, only released her for long enough to open the door and then took her hand in his once more, leading her into the entryway and lighting the house with a casual flick of his wand. 

Hermione’s pulse raced as she watched him standing there in the entryway. He had a bag slung over his shoulder with his uniform and other work things inside, and his hair was tousled from a night of merriment. She’d never realized, when his hair had been kept short, that length would leave it looking so full bodied and touchable. In her mind, she supposed that she had always associated long hair on men with Professor Snape, whose locks had invariably been thin and greasy looking when unkempt. But Harry’s hair…Well, he looked more like a rock star than a degenerate, and with the beard he’d been cultivating for the last year—and the rock hard, chiseled muscles she could see peeking out from under his shirt sleeves, compliments of his chosen career—she was certain she never wanted to see his hair short again. 

“What?” His voice startled her out of her musings, and her eyes flicked from his chest to his face as she smiled and blushed. 

“Nothing,” she said. “Admiring the view.” 

Harry’s blush was barely visible at the tops of his cheeks, and he laughed at the line she had copied directly from him. 

“Can’t say I blame you. I’m quite fit.” 

“And _ so _ humble,” she teased. “That’s what really attracted me to you, you see.” 

“Of course,” he agreed.“My humility is probably my most attractive feature. Aside from my broomstick, that is.” 

“Your—Harry!” She smacked him on the arm, trying hard not to notice how firm he was beneath the shirtsleeve. 

“I’ve been told there’s nothing sexier,” Harry continued, evading her next blow with laughing eyes as he reached into his bag and began to withdraw his hand. “You probably ought to judge for yourself though.” 

“Harry, I’m not going to judge your—” He withdrew the shiny new firebolt he’d gotten when he had become an auror, now with a few dings on the handle and some frayed bristles at the end. Hermione felt her blush deepen. “Broomstick.” She finished, lamely. 

“No?” he asked, and she met his gaze. Those emerald green irises were practically aflame, and she felt them like a physical touch on her skin as they trailed from her own eyes, down over her lips, her neck, her breasts. She had to look away to regain her composure, and by the time she had built up enough courage to look back at him, he was standing inches from her, his gaze back on hers. 

“What a shame,” he said, his voice husky. His tongue darted out to wet his upper lip for just a moment, and she would have groaned if she hadn’t been clenching her jaw so damn hard. 

She had a plan, dammit, a comprehensive, minute by minute plan of how this evening ought to go. She’d taken her time imaging it, going over every bloody detail that might present itself and assigning a course of action alongside it. And yet—somehow—she was unprepared for the way he looked at her, as if she were the most glorious thing he’d ever seen, a gift he had been hoping for and wanted desperately to unwrap. 

Hermione swallowed and forced herself to take a step back from him… For the sake of her plan. 

“Are you going to offer me something to drink,” she asked, her voice hoarse now, “or shall I stand here dying of thirst in your entryway all evening?” 

Harry hummed and if he were thinking, his gaze sweeping over her from head to toe and back again one more time before he grinned and nodded. 

“I think I’ve got something you might like.” 

She followed him up the stairs and, to her surprise, past the drawing room and onto the family floor. His bedroom door was open, and she could see the soft glow of his bedside lamp from where she stood. He paused outside the door, glancing back at her to check that she was alright accompanying him into the room. Hermione bit her lip and nodded. She had, after all, expected to end up there at some point tonight. 

He walked in before her, pausing briefly as he took in the unusually tidy room and then glancing back at Hermione. 

“You told me yesterday you’d be cleaning this morning,” she explained, “so when you were called in, Delphi and I tidied up. I hope you don’t mind.” Suddenly. She felt very self conscious about having been there earlier that day without him. What if he hadn’t wanted her in the house by herself? What if she had misread the relationship between them and overstepped? 

“You just keep making today more perfect, don’t you?” he asked. His tone was easy, warm, and comforting. Hermione let out a sigh of relief and smiled. 

“I’m trying, at any rate.” 

Harry returned to his task after that, crossing to his wardrobe and rifling through the top shelf until at last he’d found what he was looking for. Though it was wrapped in blue paper and tied with a bright yellow ribbon, Hermione could tell that it was a bottle of some sort. Harry ripped the paper open and turned the thing in his hand until the label was visible. 

“I knew it,” he crowed. “Elf made wine.” 

Hermione raised a brow. 

“Not your usual,” she said, knowing that if Harry wasn’t drinking butterbeer, he was likely taking shots of firewhisky. 

“No,” he agreed. “It was a gift for my last birthday. Luna brought it, and I knew it couldn’t be firewhisky; the bottle was the wrong shape.” 

“So you stuffed it in your wardrobe?” 

“I didn’t want Delphi to get ahold of it, and then I forgot about it,” he confessed. “Lucky for you.” 

He drew his wand out of his back pocket and conjured two, intricate looking crystal goblets, handing one to Hermione with a wink before uncorking the wine and pouring a generous amount into her glass. 

“Very smooth,” she teased, raising the drink to her lips and taking a sip. 

Almost at once, she spit the liquid back out and into the goblet. 

“Ugh!” The sound rose involuntarily from her throat as she spat again to get the taste of the wine out of her mouth. 

“What?” Asked Harry, sounding alarmed, “What is it? Is it poisoned?!” He tossed the the still full bottle and his own goblet into the corner of the room and turned hastily toward his wardrobe again. “I have a bezoar here,” he said, practically shouting no. “Don’t panic, Hermione!”

Hermione laughed. She couldn’t help herself, and when Harry rushed back to her side, eyes wild and a bezoar clutched in his hand, she positively quivered with it. 

“Harry, it’s not—I’m not—Oh, God! Can’t stop laughing!” And then she stopped talking completely as she stumbled backward and sat heavily on the edge of Harry’s over-sized bed. 

“Hermione?” He said her name again, confused as he dropped to his knees on the floor beside her and watched her wrap her arms around herself and double over, shaking as she continued to giggle. 

“Sorry! So Sorry!” she apologized, wiping the corners of her eyes with the back of her wrist. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine.” She met his gaze with her own watery eyes and bit her lip to keep from laughing again. 

“What happened?” he asked earnestly. 

“Nothing,” she assured him. “The taste just didn’t agree with me. What is that stuff anyway? It’s not like any elf wine I’ve ever had.” 

Harry held out a hand, summoning the bottle into his grasp without a word and studying the label carefully. 

“I should have known,” he said, sounding both relieved and annoyed. 

“What? What is it?” Hermione repeated and then took the bottle when Harry offered it to her. It was much lighter than it had been a minute ago, she was sure, and a quick glance at the corner of the room made her grimace at the sight of so much liquid coating the carpet and wall. Looking back down at the now empty bottle, Hermione read: _America’s Authentic_ _Elf Made Giggle Wine—Pickled Okra._

“What the hell is an okra?” Harry asked, his tone unamused. “And why exactly does it need to be pickled?” 

“Probably something to do with wrackspurts,” Hermione mused, setting the bottle onto the ground near her feet. “Perhaps in the future you should read all labels attached to gifts from Luna a bit more carefully.” 

Harry groaned and nodded, then sat on the bed beside her. 

“Merlin, I’ve cocked things up completely, haven’t I?” He was hunched over slightly, one arm crossed over his abdomen and clutching his opposite elbow. And despite the intervening years and the facial hair and the muscles, he looked every inch the little boy she had grown to love so long ago. 

“No,” she told him. “No, you haven’t.” And then she leaned into him, placing one of her hands on his opposite shoulder and drawing him nearer as she pressed her lips to his. His warmth bled into her almost instantaneously, like a jolt of electricity. She wanted desperately to kiss him harder, to get closer, and so she trailed her hand from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, pulling him down against her. Her lips parted involuntarily beneath his, and she felt rather than heard his moan as he matched the movement, his whole body turning to press his chest against hers as his arm wrapped around her to settle his warm, flat palm against her lower back. 

Bloody hell. His hand against her back was a problem, a magnificent, distracting problem, because as he deepened their kiss, wresting control of it from her as easily as if she were the size of a bowtruckle, his fingertips began to dance from the base of her spine and up over each individual vertebrae before trailing back down again. The sensation made her arch into him, and she could feel the solid wall of his chest against her through the thin blouse she wore. 

She loved the way he felt, all firm and hot at every point of contact. His fingers continued to torture her with featherlight touches and yet the hand she felt settle just above her knee was so hot she could almost imagine it branding her there, leaving an imprint to remind her of just how much he excited her. 

She moaned unconsciously and hooked that same knee over his leg, using it to leverage her body against his and draw him yet closer. And then his other hand began to move, inching up her thigh to brush against the hem of her skirt—now dangerously near to ruining one of her carefully laid plans—and then back down again. Christ, she was shivering with anticipation. She was needy and aching everywhere, struggling for breath and thought as she tried desperately to draw him even nearer. She wanted him, wanted him here on his bed at number twelve, achingly hard and wearing considerably less clothing so that she could run her hands over the chiseled planes of his body the same way he was touching her now. She wanted it so badly she could practically taste it on his tongue—the promise of what he could give her if she would just invite him to do so. It tasted like amber and lime and woodsmoke, and she never wanted to lose the flavor. 

And then, to her dismay, Harry broke the kiss. She made a frustrated sound as he pulled back just enough to drag his mouth across her cheek and begin to murmur her name against her skin. 

“Hermione,” he said, his voice raspy and so fucking gorgeous she felt herself throb in response. “Hermione, I want you. I want to hold you like this forever.” 

Yes. God yes. It was what she wanted too, to be close to him and feel his heart racing against hers as they both explored the limits of their control together. And she wanted more too. She’d  _ planned _ for more. 

“Harry,” she said, her voice so breathy she barely recognized it. “Harry, I got you a present.” 

He was kissing her jaw now, his tongue darting out to taste her as he traveled to the tender spot just below her ear. She made a quivering, needy sound, and his hand on her back stopped moving as he seemed to freeze and compose himself for a moment. 

“A present, Harry,” she repeated, blinking and trying to clear some of the fog that had rolled into her mind. “Don’t you want your present?” 

“Un-uh,” he said, and then his mouth was on her neck, and his hand was pulling her leg over him again until he was sitting back on the bed and she was straddling him, her short, pleated skirt falling down to cover his lap, and hers, completely. She felt him hard against her for a moment, so rigid that there was instant pressure against the sensitive spot between her thighs and she cried out, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face against his shoulder. 

“Fuck,” he swore, and then his hands were on her hips, pushing her up and back to sit on his thighs, leaving her feeling curiously bereft and aching for him. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she promised. “Was better when you were kissing me.” She didn’t wait for him to say anything else, only leaned forward and kissed him once more. She swept her tongue against his lips, and he opened to her just as she had for him. And his hands, his glorious hands, moved all the while, trailing from her hips up to her ribs and higher, where he could caress the side of her breast through the blouse she wore. Her nipples, already hard with excitement, tightened even furthur. 

Suddenly, she felt it was  _ imperative _ that Harry open his birthday present. 

“Unbutton my blouse,” she ordered, breaking their kiss and scooting up on his lap until she could feel the rigid length of him against her sex once more. She used her knees to push up just slightly and pulled his face against the bare skin of her chest, just above the top button of her blouse, hoping to make her request perfectly clear.

Harry—law abiding Auror that he was—obeyed her instructions. And because he was also a talented seeker, his fingers moved quickly and nimbly down the row of buttons between them as he gave her another drugging kiss. 

Hermione shivered when the cool air surrounding them hit the line of flesh now running from neck to belly, and then moaned as she felt Harry’s hands dip underneath the fabric and encircle her waist. He spread the blouse apart as he pulled back to look down at her. She had put a surprising amount of effort into this birthday gift, and worried for a moment that her idea had been silly or juvenile… that this man with calluses on his fingers that drove her wild, who had a family and a job and a beard, would be unimpressed by it. 

His sharp intake of breath and the roughly uttered expletive that followed were all she needed for a glowing sense of satisfaction to reassure her.

She opened her eyes and was rewarded by the sight of Harry staring intently at her exposed flesh. His eyes were wide, pupils blown and irises nearly completely black as his gaze was riveted on her chest. Merlin, he looked so bloody shagable like that, his lips swollen and a flush visible on his neck. And then she looked down at herself. 

The lacy bra she wore was scarlet—the exact color of Harry’s Quidditch robes when he had played at school—and the lace field of the demi-cup was dotted with tiny golden Snitches, all embroidered painstakingly into the fabric and then enchanted to dart this way and that. The effect, she had to admit, was quite charming against the pale skin of her breasts. 

Harry, it seemed, agreed. 

Bolstered by the expression on his face and by her own state of arousal, Hermione leaned in toward him--wrapping her arms around his neck again--and put her mouth right near his ear to whisper. 

“It’s a matching set.” 

“Merlin, Morgana, and Circe.” His eyes darted up to meet hers. “You’re going to kill me.” 

“Only a little,” she confided, and then began to kiss him again, swallowing his groan eagerly and making some noise of her own as his cock ground against her through the lace of her panties and his hand enveloped one of her breasts. She began to quiver with excitement again as his palm warmed her and his calloused thumb stroked the bare skin above the line of her bra. She wanted him to do more, to dip his fingers beneath the cloth and brush against the aching peak of her nipple. 

Instead, he released her, never breaking their kiss as he removed her blouse completely and began to fumble with the clasp of his birthday present. It was the work of scant moments for him, and soon he was drawing the scrap of scarlet and gold off of her arm and returning his hand to her breast as he stopped for a second to appreciate the view. 

“Fuck, sweetheart.” The way Harry was looking at her made her pulse quicken, and she licked her lips in anticipation. “You’re so beautiful.” His gaze devoured every inch of her, every freckle, every tan line, and every blemish. It skated over the scar Dolohov had given her in the Department of Mysteries, and then paused for a moment on the obscene word Bellatrix had etched into her skin. Hermione made to cross her arms over her chest and hide that particular scar against her body, but Harry caught her arm as she moved, drawing it out quickly and turning it up so that he could kiss her. His clever lips moved from the sensitive flesh of her wrist and up to the ruined skin of her forearm. They lingered there, kissing, licking, worshiping. 

“It’s a word,” he said, voice rough against her arm as he laid his cheek there so that he could look up at her. She could feel his beard tickling her skin. “Just a word.” 

She blushed, loving him more in that moment than she ever had before. Soon, he released her, and she forced herself to keep her arms at her side. 

“Your turn,” she said, feeling suddenly self conscious about being the only one of them without a top on. Her hair was long and should have covered her somewhat, but Harry had brushed it back so that his view of her would be unhindered. 

He grinned at her in response and lifted his arms, indicating that she should pull off the shirt he wore. When it was gone she was treated to the sight of his bare chest and the line of dark hair that ascended from the waistband of his trousers, up his chiseled abdomen, and to his chest, where it spread out neatly over rock hard pectorals. 

“Jesus, what do they feed you Aurors?” 

Harry laughed and wrapped his arms around her, drawing her back down to him as his hips jutted upward and made her gasp quietly. Still mirthful, Harry took the opportunity to turn Hermione over on the bed, slinging her up towards the headboard effortlessly and then following her on hands and knees. His eyes seemed to devour her, never leaving her breasts as they bounced when she landed, not until he was eye level with her and his hand was skating up the bare skin of her parted thigh. 

Instantly, she was on fire again. His hand was hot on her, and his lips were brushing against her cheek, and then her jaw, and then her neck. Going lower and lower until she could feel his breath on the hard peak of her nipple. She felt herself grow even more aroused, if it were possible, and her stomach seemed to swoop as his lips brushed gently over the pebbled point before opening and taking her into his mouth. 

“Oh, God,” she swore, unable to keep quiet as he began to suckle her and then run his tongue in circles around the nipple. She twined her fingers in his hair, holding him fast against her as lightning shot from her breast to the sensitive, pulsing place between her thighs. It was delicious, this feeling he was creating inside of her. She remembered the sense of urgency that had come with it in Flourish and Blotts two weeks ago, and several times since then when they had managed to find the privacy to explore one another. It was building again, the need inside of her to be as close to him as possible, to feel him touching her in new and incredible places. 

“Harry,” she breathed, and he looked up at her, his mouth still on her, sucking deliciously as she cried out and his hand continued to stroke her thigh, up high beside the crease where it ended. “Harry, take off your trousers.” 

His lips popped off of her breast just long enough for him to shake his head, and she nearly swore at him to stop being so bloody gallant… but then his fingers inched higher still, toying with the edge of the lace knickers she wore. 

“Can I touch you?” he asked her, his voice rough. “Here?”

“Yes.  _ Please _ .”

And he did. 

The first touch of his finger on the bare flesh of her sex was electric. He slipped it beneath the lace that covered her and stroked from the top of her cleft to the bottom and back again. Her moan in response might have been embarrassing if she could think straight, but Harry seemed to enjoy the sound, because he began to suck eagerly at her opposite nipple as he stroked her. Every move he made was pure bliss, and she arched against him, trying to bring him closer so that there could be more pressure  _ there _ , where she needed is so desperately. But he held firm, continuing to stroke her lightly, the tips of his fingers sliding through the incredible wetness that coated her. 

She was out of her mind, or would be very soon. Her hips were jerking up and down rhythmically, and she was hyper aware of his cock pressed against her thigh through the denim of his trousers as his hand tortured her. She wanted more, wanted him to to dip his fingers just a bit further into her until they hit the spot she knew would send her—

“Fuuuck.” He was circling the pulsing nub at the apex of her cleft now, and the indirect pressure was enough to make her whimper incoherently. She was so bloody close. Her entire sex was pulsing and her body was vibrating with need as her back arched and her head ground into the pillow where it rested. Her toes were curling, for Merlin’s sake, and if he would just move his fingers the barest fraction of an inch… but he only continued to circle, moving up to swallow her noises with eager kisses. 

“Hermione,” he rasped after another minute, his fingers slowing and then pulling completely from inside of her knickers. She cried out in response and he kissed her before speaking again. “I want you. I want to be inside of you. Can I—”

“YES! God, yes,” she cried, and then her hands were tugging inexpertly at the waistband of his trousers, finding first the button and then the zipper, undoing them both hastily. Harry helped her yank down his jeans and then his pants, kicking them off of his legs and onto the floor and then lifting her hips up so that he could undo the zipper at the back of her skirt and remove it completely. 

She was left in nothing but a soaked pair of scarlet and gold knickers, and Harry paused before removing them. She didn’t feel nervous as he took her in, his emerald green eyes washing over her from head to toe, lingering at her breasts and then the center of her pleasure hidden from his view. 

Hermione watched him in return, thanking God and Merlin and any other deity that cared to take credit for whatever circumstance had led to this moment. She was in bed with the most attractive man she’d ever seen, and his generous arousal left no doubt in her mind that he desired her. 

“I love you,” she blurted, before she could think better of it. 

Harry grinned, and his gaze snapped up to hers. 

“I love you too,” he said, his voice shaking. 

And then he leaned down to kiss her. She would never tire of his kisses, of the way he tasted and touched and took everything he needed from her. And as he explored her mouth his hand trailed from her breast, down her side to hook under the edge of the only thing left between them. He pushed the scrap of lace down her hips, over her thighs, and then used a toe to remove them completely from around her ankles. 

His hand was touching her again after that, fingers caressing the slick valley that begged him to explore, teasing her back to a fever pitch and then dangling her there until she was begging him—pleading with him—to let her fall over the edge and come. 

“Please, Harry. I can’t— I  _ need _ —Yes!”

Two clever fingers dipped into her, fitting snugly inside and curling just so until her head swam and the only thing she could make sense of was his thumb stroking steadily over the hood of her clit. And it was good, so bloody good. Her whole body was taut as a bowstring and her breath was coming in short little pants as Harry began to whisper hotly in her ear. 

“Let it happen, love. I want to see what you look like when you come.”

Her body did as it was told, spiraling into a shattering climax. She felt as if she were floating, exploding,  _ dying _ . His fingers inside of her and his thumb still stroking her were the entirety of her world, driving the sensation onward and upward until the only thing she knew was that if he ever stopped touching her, she would never feel this whole, this complete, again. She needed him, needed his touch more than she had ever needed anything in her life. 

When she could breathe again, and her limbs grew lax and heavy, she realized she’d been crying. Her cheeks were wet, and she was taking in air in sharp little gasps, as if she hadn’t breathed in a year or more. Merlin, she felt as if she’d just finished running a marathon. Her heart was pounding, her lungs burning, and her whole body still shook from the force of her climax. 

The first thing she felt outside of herself was what brought her back to vivid awareness of the situation. Harry was kissing the corner of her mouth and stroking her hair. He whispered in soft tones, though she could not make out the words, and his cock, rock hard and velvet, was pressed against her thigh as his hips moved just slightly and his fingers continued stroking her lower lips gently. 

“Are you okay, love?” he asked, and at last she registered the question. 

Was she okay? 

She was better than just okay. She was floating still, completely boneless and sated. She was wickedly marvelous. 

“Hermione?”

“Mmm?”

“Are you okay?” 

“Mhmm.” 

“Can I… I mean… do you still want to…” His voice trailed off, and she had to think very hard before she understood what he meant, her rational brain still cloaked in fog as it was. 

“Yes, Harry,” she breathed. “Please. I want you.” 

And she did. She wanted him inside of her, wanted him to feel this same euphoria she was revelling in. She wanted to know what it was like to be so close to him that they were a single person, connected by pleasure so intense she might never recover. 

“Are you on the--I mean, should I get a--some protection?”

“What?” She fought through the haze of her afterglow just enough to comprehend his meaning, and then shook her head.

“I’m on the potion,” she said.

Harry nodded, not needing to know more or be told a second time. He positioned himself at her entrance, and the heat of his cock between her folds jolted her back to awareness. She was throbbing again where his fingers had continued to stroke her, and she was miraculously needy once more. She felt almost as if with the right amount of pressure, she could fly apart again, this time with him. 

He met her gaze, making sure she could see him as he pressed forward and into her. Her sharp gasp and the little sound she made afterward surprised her, but for Harry it seemed to be encouragement, because he continued forward, arching his back and fitting his hips to hers in one smooth motion. 

Hermione moaned, bewildered and excited by this new sensation. She was so bloody full and stretched so tight around him. He was hot and hard and filled every last inch of her, and if he didn’t start moving she thought she might scream. 

She moved her hips without thinking, thrusting them up until she felt him pressing hard against the part of her that was still aching for more. She gasped and Harry cried out, his face dropping to bury itself against her neck. 

“Christ,” he groaned, and then he drew back and thrust forward once. Hermione almost hissed with the pleasure of it. He was rubbing against her, stoking the fire that had only just burned to embers. He moved again and she moved with him, trying to match his rhythm and failing because she needed him so much she could barely think straight. 

Still, this was everything. Him, so deep inside of her that she doubted they would ever be parted. Her, begging him to continue, to keep rocking against her and filling her forever.

“Shit, Hermione, I’m going to—Sweetheart, I’m going to—”

She let her eyes flutter open and focus on him above her. Harry’s eyes were wide, his mouth parted as he panted and his hands clenched into fists on the pillow beside her head. He was so sexy in that moment, just on the edge of control, his whole body tensed against her as he fought to keep from the inevitable conclusion for just a bit longer, to hover on the unbearably sweet precipice of orgasm until he fell over the edge. 

And then he came, biting his lip and burying his face against her breast as his back arched and she felt him pulse deep inside of her. His whole body shook for a moment and then, after a deep gasping breath, he collapsed on top of her, limp as his mouth kissed the top of her breast. 

They stayed there, together in the bliss of the moment, until feeling returned to their arms and legs and Harry rolled to the side, giving her just enough room that she could breathe deeply. Finally, he wrapped his arm around her and she nestled against him. Hermione wasn’t sure how long it was before he spoke again; she was drifting on a cloud of contentment after what they had done, and his voice brought her back to the bed with him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I know you didn’t get a chance to… there at the end.” 

“Harry,” she said, her tone serious now. “Don’t you dare apologize for that. It was wonderful. You were— Christ, Harry, do you know how sexy you are?” 

His mouth turned up at one corner, and he let his hand trace the curves of her body. 

“Likewise,” he said. “Still… I’d like to see you again.” 

“I’m right here,” she hummed, closing her eyes and snuggling against him. “Look your fill.” 

He chuckled, kissing her ear and then settling his hand over one of her breasts so that he could stroke her nipple with his thumb. Her eyes flew open again. 

“No,” he said, “I mean I’d like to see you come again.” 

Hermione, happy as she was in that moment, was not inclined to deny him.

  
  



	27. Chapter 27

The Ministry of Magic

9 August 1999

Harry was having trouble concentrating. The details of the report he was struggling to write seemed to recede as memories of his time with Hermione kept him firmly in thrall. They’d been alone together once since his birthday, and it wasn’t nearly enough. He wanted her every minute of every day, and could barely think of anything aside from the taste of her on his lips and the way her whole body shivered when she came. It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t have her, that she still lived with her parents and that he had a small child who had started waking with nightmares again the week before. Now that he’d gotten to experience what it was like to be with her—to be inside of her—he could think of little else. All of this, of course, meant that he had a rather persistent and distracting recurring erection to deal with: which was not good for his work, or for his ability to focus on the last minute details of Delphi’s birthday party which still needed tending. 

Sighing, Harry adjusted himself beneath the desk where he sat, and set aside the incident report to finish later. Head Auror Robards had not been overly demanding in the past when it came to paperwork, and Harry imagined the trend would continue, allowing for a few days delay between the altercation that morning and the report Harry was required to submit with every pertinent (and non-pertinent) detail. Instead, he pulled a piece of parchment from the depths of his desk drawer. On it was the list he had made three days before of tasks that needed doing before that evening. Delphi’s second birthday—and the anniversary of the day he had found her—would be the first event he would host at number twelve since having adopted her, and he desperately wanted to prove that he was an adult, capable of throwing his child a bloody party. 

He made his way down the list with a quill, checking off the tasks he had already accomplished and circling the rest. In the end, he was left with only three tasks. Picking up the birthday cake he had ordered from a new bake shop that had opened in Hogsmeade (they specialized in enchanted cakes such as the unicorn one Harry had commissioned, which would prance around a sheet cake paddock), wrapping Delphis gift, and cleaning his bloody house before the guests arrived. The last was what gave him the most anxiety. He’d always been shit at cleaning charms, and usually resorted to tidying up the Muggle way. Tonight, however, he hadn’t the time. He wondered briefly if Hermione would be out of work in time to give him a hand. She was certainly kind and thoughtful enough that she might agree. And maybe if he promised her more of what he’d done four nights ago in her bedroom at the Granger’s house… 

“Bloody hell,” said Harry, shaking his head. Could he not go five minutes without the sight of her spread out over soft lilac sheets replaying itself in his head? 

“Harry?” 

He looked up at the sound of a familiar voice behind him, turning in his seat to find Ron standing in the middle of the Auror’s bullpen with his hands in his trouser pockets and his scarlet jacket unbuttoned down the front. 

“Ron.” Harry nodded. “Good day?” 

The redhead bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. Instantly suspicious, Harry spun his chair around and leaned back, folding his hands over his stomach. Ron’s eyes seemed to assess his friend, checking all the usual spots where he kept his wand before lingering on the polished length of holly resting in a holster against Harry’s forearm. 

“Alright?” Harry asked, breaking the awkward silence which had descended and taking care not to make any sudden moves. Ron seemed on edge, and the last thing Harry wanted now was to be accidentally hexed. 

“Yeah,” said Ron. “Just getting in from lunch. Went with Slattern and Kline.” He hesitated and then continued. “You haven’t seen the  _ Prophet _ yet today, have you?” 

Harry frowned. “No.” 

“Right,” said Ron, nodding and then pulling a nearby chair up so that he could sit in front of Harry. He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Harry noticed that Ron’s wand was currently tucked into the top of his boot. “Look, I don’t want you to lose your head, but I really think you need to see it. Now. Before the rest of them get back from the Leaky Cauldron.” Ron glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the only two other Aurors in the room, both at their desks near the wall. 

Harry frowned. “That bad, is it?” 

Ron just grimaced, his eyes snapping back to Harry, and then reached behind him, pulling a folded newspaper from his back pocket and holding out for him to take. 

Harry studied the newsprint for several seconds before taking it in hand and unfurling it over his knee. It took far longer than he had expected for Harry to make sense of the large black and white photograph taking up a good two thirds of the front page above the fold. Perhaps it was because he had not expected to see a large photograph of himself carrying a dozing Delphi in his arms, her little face half obscured by dark curls and resting on his shoulder, otherwise completely visible to the public. When had this been taken? He hadn’t noticed any photographers tailing him recently, but by the outfit Delphi wore (and the length of his beard, which he had recently trimmed) Harry could tell that the picture had been taken sometime in the last week. In the background of the photo he thought he could see Andromeda’s cottage, and he seethed inwardly. They had followed him to the place where his daughter stayed each day? He would kill them. 

“Take a look at the article, mate,” said Ron, and Harry turned the paper over to obey. 

_ Harry Potter, Chosen One, seems to have left behind him the trappings of youth and heroism. Pictured above, Mr Potter can be seen with his adopted daughter, Delphini Potter. While the two make a picturesque pair, this reputable journalist cannot help but wonder how their association came to be. Rumor has abounded since little Delphini’s adoption was registered last August, and the public has been left to sort through the miasma of contradictory evidence alone. Now, the  _ Daily Prophet  _ has unearthed evidence which suggests that the story Mr Potter and his associates have been offering the Wizarding World, is not only false, but a gross misrepresentation of Potter and his role in the child’s life.  _

_ After rigorous fact checking in the Muggle world, no record had been found of the man Mr Potter claims is the real father of his ward, neither of his birth nor of his death. In fact, there is no sign of any supposed Potter cousin ever existed. Given this startling truth, we are left to wonder at the true origins of a child many say is too young to be left in the hands of a nineteen year old boy, and at her purpose in the young man’s life.  _

_ Rumor suggests that Potter used his fame developed during the recent war to influence Minister for Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt, to approve his swift adoption of of Delphini nee Doe, a fact which leads this journalist to suspect that—cont. Pg. 8.  _

Harry tore the paper open furiously and flipped to page eight. With every word he read his face grew more hot, his grip more violent, and his jaw more tense. By the time he was done, his blood was boiling, and he felt the most desperate urge to find Rita Skeeter and rip her head from her body. 

“I’m going to kill her,” he hissed, ripping the paper in half and springing from his chair. The rumors and accusations Skeeter had leveled against him were nothing short of disgusting, and he wanted nothing more than to make her regret every ludicrous, vile, and completely fabricated suggestion. He crumpled the paper and threw it in the direction of the bin before beginning to stride for the door of the bullpen. “I’m going to shove her Quick Quotes Quill so far up her arse she’ll be—”

“Stupefy!” The last thing Harry noticed before he lost consciousness was a sharp pain in the center of his back and the floor rushing up to meet him. 

0-0-0-0-0-0

Hermione sat at her cubicle on the fourth floor of the Ministry, her quill scratching furiously over the blank parchment beneath ministry letterhead as she dictated aloud to the pair. 

“‘Dear Mr Fawley.’ Wait, scratch that. Just write, ‘Mr Fawley.’ That’s better. ‘It has come to the attention of the ministry and of the Department of the House Elf Liaison, that a being in your care was discharged from your home yesterday evening. Given said being’s lifelong residency in your ancestral home, it is the belief of this department that one Jinsy nee Loopsy, is entitled to severance pay as well as support, until such time as she is able to secure gainful employment elsewhere.’” 

Hermione paused, leaning forward in her chair and snatching the quill out of the air where it hung, ready to continue. Slashing through the missive ruthlessly, Hermione growled. How bloody difficult was it to write a letter? Very, apparently. The crumpled stationary she sent careening toward the wastepaper bin was the sixth of its kind, and Hermione was no closer to finding the balance she sought between firm and demanding, and professional. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione caught sight of a small paper aeroplane zooming toward her. Eager to avoid a repeat of the last time one such interdepartmental memo had been sent to her and promptly struck her in the eye, Hermione ducked, reaching up with one hand to catch the thing before it could knock over the open bottle of ink on her desk. 

“Damn things.” Sitting back up and smoothing her pencil skirt reflexively, Hermione opened the purple parchment over her desk, leaning down to read the familiar looking scrawl found within. 

_ Hermione,  _

_ Emergency in the Auror department. Come quick. Be prepared to hand over your wand.  _

_ Ron _

Hermione’s heart plummeted from her chest to her stomach in one fell swoop, and she sprang from her desk. An emergency in the Auror department? Had something happened to Harry? Without thinking—or stopping to put on the lilac departmental robe she’d hung over the back of her chair earlier that morning—she rushed from the small office she had been given and toward the lifts. As she ran, the curious glances of the other workers in her department followed her, but Hermione didn’t have time to stop and explain herself, not when Harry could be in pain or maimed or dead for all she knew. The evening before he had told her that there was a raid planned this morning. Had it gone wrong? Was the offender not a harmless idiot as he had expected, but a Death Eater intent on ending his life? 

Once the lift opened, Hermione mashed the button to reach the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, aiming her wand at the controls and muttering a spell to bypass the third floor completely, which caused an ancient looking wizard behind her to grumble. 

“See here,” he said. 

“There’s an emergency,” Hermione told him, giving him her most severe look and then turning her back on him completely. 

Merlin, had the lift always been so fucking slow? And why on earth weren’t there stairs between levels? Harry could be bleeding out right now or—And then a horrible thought occurred to her. 

Or Delphi could be in trouble. What if something had happened at Andromeda’s and the girl had been hurt? God, that probably was it. No wonder Ron demanded she be prepared to hand over her wand. If Delphi had been hurt, Hermione would gladly eviscerate the person responsible. 

The lift jerked to a halt at the second floor, and Hermione practically flew out the doors, around the corner, and through a set of heavy oak doors that she threw open with a wave of her hand and a blast of wandless magic. 

“What’s happening?” she called, voice shrill and eyes scanning the room before they finally landed on Ron. He was standing ten feet away, his wand arm outstretched toward her. 

“Expelliarmus,” he said, and Hermione’s wand flew out of her sleeve and toward him. He caught it effortlessly and slipped it inside of his jacket pocket. 

“Hermione,” he finally acknowledged as she narrowed her gaze in his direction.

“What the hell is going —” As she spoke Ron stepped aside to reveal Harry behind him. He was disheveled looking, his long black hair a tousled mess that hung down over half of his face to partially obscure the gag currently filling his mouth. He was tied to his chair, his hands behind his back and his clothes rumpled. His own Auror's jacket was nowhere in sight. 

“Harry?” 

Harry nodded in her direction, looking furious and grumbling something unintelligible through his gag.

“He’s gone mental,” said Ron, by way of explanation. He stuffed his hands in his trouser pockets and cast a furtive glance at the Chosen One, bound behind him. “I called you here because I need your help talking him off the bloody Quidditch stand.” 

“Ron I don’t think—”

Interrupting her, Ron strode forward with a crumbled and Spellotaped newspaper in his hands that he held out for her to take. 

“Promise me you won’t lose your head too,” he seemed to beg, and Hermione eyed the paper warily. 

“Is that the  _ Daily Prophet _ ?” 

“Skeeter,” said Ron, nodding, and his one word answer was enough to make her see red. 

Hermione took the  _ Prophet _ and scanned the cover, her eyes widening as she took in the photo and the accompanying headline.  _ CHOSEN ONE CHOOSES SECRECY _ . 

“The bitch.” 

“It gets worse.” Ron winced and trained his wand on her once more. At her scathing look he shrugged. “Just in case.” 

“Honestly,” she said loftily, and then looked back down to read the article. Every word was an assault, and Hermione felt herself beginning to seethe as she slogged through the muck. She hadn’t even made it halfway through when she was forced to gasp and crumple the damn thing in her fists. 

“I’m going to bury her,” Hermione swore, ripping the paper in half and watching with satisfaction as the spellotape gave way and the filth fell to the floor. 

On the other side of the room, two Aurors she hadn’t noticed before stood, their wands in hand though aimed at the floor, as if they had been waiting for her to threaten violence. 

“Oh, sod off you great bloody buffoons,” she hissed in their direction, turning her back on them afterward as if they were of no consequence. 

Ron held up a hand in their direction and gave them an apologetic look. 

“Can we have a few minutes, gents? Just until the rest get back?” 

Hermione didn’t see their responses, but she heard the heavy oak doors that led out of the bullpen open and close once more. 

“Hermione—” began Ron, but Hermione cut him off. 

“Shut it, Ron,” she ordered. “I’m thinking.” 

“Yaaaa—uuuuhhhhiiiiiwwwwoooom,” sounded Harry from his seat, glaring dangerously at his friend, though the expression was somewhat diminished by the fact that he was still bound and gagged. 

Ron, clearly frustrated, nodded once and took a seat near Harry. 

Hermione began to pace, her mind whirling as she weighed the pros and cons of forcing Skeeter to transform into the bug she was and then crushing the bloody beetle under her truly uncomfortable high-heeled shoes. Eventually, Hermione dismissed the idea as too kind and moved on to other options. She paced continuously, her pumps clicking against the hardwood flooring until someone tried to open the doors leading into the room and Ron shouted for whoever it was on the other side to give him just one more bloody minute. 

At last, Hermione stilled, her breathing having settled into a quick, even pattern once more. 

Ron watched as she strode over to him and held her hand out for her wand. After several seconds of expectant silence, he swallowed and handed it to her. 

“You’ve had an idea,” he said, recognizing that steely glint in her eye. 

Hermione crossed over to Harry, flicking her wand and Vanishing the cloth which had served as his gag. 

“Ron, you fucking arsehole,” Harry began to shout, but Hermione pressed her wand to his lips, shaking her head and giving him her very best disappointed look. Harry swallowed and blinked up at her. Quietly.

“There’s no need to shout,” she chided, removing her wand and then leaning against the desk beside him. She crossed her knees as she sat, and her knee length pencil skirt rode up her thigh. Harry’s brain went instantly foggy. 

“I was doing you a favor, mate,” Ron groused. 

“Shut up, Ron.” Hermione ordered, and once he had fallen silent again, she continued. “Now, Harry. When you say you're wealthy, exactly how many galleons are we talking about?” 

Both of the men seated around her frowned in confusion, but Hermione only grinned.

0-0-0-0-0-0

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place

Delphi’s birthday party went off without a hitch, in great part thanks to Hermione, who had forced Harry to accomplish everything still on his list and had threatened to do him bodily harm if he dared to let ‘that awful woman’ ruin her goddaughter’s first ever birthday party. By the time the evening was over, the happy two year old—who was none the wiser about the awful article the  _ Daily Prophet _ had published—had nearly doubled her toy collection and happily fallen asleep surrounded by the new additions to her horde. Harry and Hermione had seen the guests off together shortly after that, thanking them for coming and sending them with plates of extra food that Molly had supplied. In the end, they were left alone in the drawing room, sitting side by side on the wide sofa. 

“God, that was exhausting,” Hermione sighed, settling in against him, her unruly curls spreading out over his chest and her cheek on his shoulder. “I don’t know how Molly does it so often. Can you imagine hosting something like that every week the way she does?” 

Harry grunted in response, and Hermione tilted her face up to look at him. 

“Still thinking about it?”

Harry felt himself tense and nodded. Hermione sighed and buried her face against him once more. “Me too,” she confessed. 

“I just—The things she said. They were awful. I can’t bear anyone thinking that I…” He couldn’t finish the sentence, and his throat burned with unspoken words as Hermione took his hand in hers, squeezing it gently.

“No one thinks that,” she said. “Especially no one who’s ever seen you with her. It’s clear how much you love her. You’re her father, Harry.” 

“Well, if no one thought it before, they’ll be thinking it now.” 

“The type of people who would take Skeeter seriously would believe the worst of Merlin himself.”

“Merlin was never called a… a child abuser.” Harry couldn’t bear to look down at Hermione as she pressed a kiss to his collarbone. She had read all of the filthy things the  _ Prophet  _ had accused him of, and though he knew there was no truth to the wild rumors Skeeter herself had likely created… Harry could not help the feeling of shame which flooded him at the thought of being lumped in with people like Euphemia Rowle and the Dursley’s.

“You’re not that type of man, Harry,” said Hermione, voice firm as she wrapped an arm around his waist. “And you can’t let them get under your skin.” 

He knew she was right, but the rage and the embarrassment, and the worry that Skeeter knew more than she had written, were all so strong that his own feelings of confidence and self worth were being buried by them. 

“Now,” Hermione continued, “we have a plan for how to deal with this—and I think you agree it’s a brilliant one—but as of this moment, there’s nothing more we can do that won’t get us thrown into Azkaban, so I say we try to forget the bloody article exists, and find something more…pleasant, to distract ourselves with." 

Harry’s brows rose at the way Hermione practically purred the end of her sentence, and he felt his pulse quicken in response. Merlin help him, but even enraged as he was over the trash that he and Delphi had been dragged into that morning, he still wanted her. 

“Pleasant?” Harry let the word play as a question on his tongue. 

“Mhmm.” Hermione nuzzled against him, her hand trailing down his chest to rest just above his knee. Though she had discarded the tailored suit jacket she had worn that day, she was still wearing the pencil skirt that had distracted him earlier, and a silky white blouse with a row of buttons running from her neck down to her waistband. Harry thought he could make out a hint of lace through the sheer fabric, and his mouth watered. 

“Hermione,” he said, his own hand sliding up the inside of one of her stocking clad thighs until he could practically feel the heat radiating off of her. Her breath hitched, and she looked up at him, her eyes wide and wanting. And suddenly, Harry found that he didn’t give a damn about Rita Skeeter or the  _ Daily Prophet _ , or what anyone might think of him. All that mattered here, with Hermione beginning to breathe in short little gasps against him, was that she was wearing a lace bra, and if he was very good and very clever, she might let him see it. “Do you want to come, love?”

Her breath caught again, this time for several seconds as her pupils dilated and she gave one firm nod before filling her lungs once more. 

Harry smirked, unable to help himself when he could tell how desperately she wanted what he was offering, how desperately she wanted  _ him. _

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips first to her cheek, and then to the corner of her mouth before finally claiming her lips for a scorching, open mouthed kiss. He let his tongue sweep over her perfect teeth and relished the taste of her, the honey and the cream and the flavor he’d come to recognize as completely  _ her _ . His fingers danced beneath her skirt, tracing over the seam of her stocking at the crease of her thigh as she began to whimper needily into his mouth. Breaking the kiss just enough to grin against her, Harry brushed one knuckle over the lace of her knickers—tracing the cleft at her center—then swallowed her gasp in another all consuming kiss. 

He wanted her, wanted to fuck her here on the couch where he’d imagined her splayed out so many times. Wanted to kiss her and bury his fingers so deeply inside of her she begged him to replace them with his cock. He needed her breasts bare to him, her legs spread and her—

_ Rap tap tap! _

They jumped apart at the sound of a sharp pecking at the window behind them. Harry’s cock ached, and Hermione’s eyes were still wild with arousal. 

“What was that?” she asked, looking confused. 

Harry glanced up at the window, spotting a common barn owl flapping its wings there against the glass. 

“Fucking owl,” he swore. 

Hermione looked up, sighing and standing as Harry’s hand slid off of her thigh and onto the couch, bereft. 

It was just his rotten luck, he thought as Hermione opened the window and took the owl’s delivery. Today, of all days. Delphi was sleeping peacefully, and they were alone in his house for the first time since his birthday. Hermione wanted him, and he wanted her, and he could have had her knickers around her knees by now if that bloody bird hadn’t chosen that exact moment to—

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice was high and panicked as she stared down at the unfurled scroll in her hands, and as she looked up, her eyes meeting his, Harry felt his stomach drop down to his toes. 

  
  



	28. Chapter 28

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place

9 August 1999

Merlin, but the bloody barn owl flapping away at the window behind their heads had the worst timing in the word. Heart still beating wildly and a suddenly uncomfortable slickness between her thighs, Hermione sighed and stood to let the thing in. Harry, to Hermione’s amusement, practically growled and then leaned back against the sofa, covering his eyes with the crook of his elbow and muttering something inaudible beneath his breath. 

The owl perched on the window sill once Hermione had opened the window, holding out one of its legs with a thin looking scroll clutched in its talons. Hermione took the letter and the owl took flight, leaving behind it a single feather which fluttered down onto the pavement below. Hermione shut the window with one hand and expertly unfurled the scroll with the other. She made to scan the missive casually, but at the sight of the bold block letters printed precisely onto the parchment, her brows furrowed. 

The note took her no more than a few seconds to read. 

I KNOW WHO SHE REALLY IS.

TEN THOUSAND GALLEONS OR I TELL THE WORLD.

SEND THE GOLD WITH THE UNTRACEABLE PORTKEY I’VE ATTACHED.

ACTIVATE BY SAYING ‘VOLDEMORT’S DAUGHTER.’

YOU HAVE UNTIL THE TWELFTH AT MIDNIGHT.

Below the print was a silver safety pin that had been attached through the parchment.

“Harry!” she cried, looking up from the missive in a panic. 

Harry jumped up from the sofa as if he had been stung, his expression worried. Hermione felt guilty for startling him for a moment before she realized that fear was an appropriate reaction to what she’d just read. 

“What is it?” he asked, voice louder than normal. “Is someone hurt?” 

She shook her head but could not force her mouth to form words. After several seconds, she held the letter out to him. He took it without hesitation, eyes blazing as he pored over it. It seemed to take him forever to read it, but Hermione knew it was more likely her own sense of shock which made the wait seem interminable. 

When he looked up, the color had drained from his face, and there was a look in his eyes that she barely recognized.  _ Fear _ . 

They stood in silence for God only knew how long. Harry seemed to be waging some sort of internal war, and Hermione was busy cataloguing every interaction she’d ever had where Delphi’s name had been mentioned. No one knew the truth of the girls birth save herself, Harry and Ron, and the Malfoys. Rowle, perhaps, had known as well, but Hermione hardly thought Narcissa Malfoy would be eager to have her close,  _ familial  _ relationship with Lord Voldemort made common knowledge. No—Purebloods like her were secretive about anything that might bring them shame. She would have demanded an oath of whomever she’d entrusted with Delphi’s care… but could they be sure? If Rowle  _ had _ known the truth, would she have shared the knowledge? Given the state they had found Delphi in, Hermione would have guessed not… but then who had sent the letter? 

Blackmail, that was what was happening, and by someone who knew the truth of Delphi’s birth, who knew that she had never been a Dursley at all, but that she had been born Delphini Riddle, child of a mad witch and a truly evil wizard. 

She finally looked back at Harry, just in time to catch the look of rage that was materializing on his face. 

“Malfoy,” he hissed, crumpling the letter in his fist and then dropping it to the ground. Hermione bent to pick it up, speaking as she did. 

“We don’t know who—” 

“WHO ELSE?!” Harry bellowed, and Hermione flinched slightly at the volume, straightening once more and drawing her wand to run a series of tracking charms on the letter, none of which were fruitful. 

“I’m going to tear him apart,” Harry continued. “When I’m done with him, he’s going to be a smudge on the marble floors of his pompous fucking house.”

“Harry, we don’t know that it’s Malfoy. And if it is, why does he want money? That family has more than any three people could spend in a lifetime.” Hermione cast a complicated spell on the ink of the blackmail note, which should have rearranged into the name of the writer, but instead simply vanished. “Fuck.” 

“What?” Harry asked, still clearly upset. 

“Whoever sent this was smart enough to charm the bloody thing into keeping their secrets.” 

“Malfoy could have—” 

“I don’t think it’s Malfoy,” Hermione said firmly. 

“Then who could have—shit.” He turned away from her and kicked the leg of the sofa, which promptly broke off. “Rowle. That bitch.” 

Hermione made an impatient noise and dropped the letter onto the end table nearby. 

“Harry, you Obliviated her.” 

“I’d never done it before,” he argued. “It could have been rubbish. What if it’s worn off and she knows what I did?” 

“If it had worn off don’t you think she’d have—” 

“You saw the state of the place she was living. What if she thought she could make galleons off of me? She nearly killed Delphi, and now she thinks she can profit from it?!” 

“Why after all this time!?” Hermione was shouting, her own volume matching Harry’s as he began to pace from the now uneven sofa to the fireplace and back again. “The Malfoys and Rowle have had a year to act before this. Don’t you think they’d have done something with that time already?” 

Harry thought for several seconds and then shook his head. 

“Skeeter’s article. The fucking thing came out today. One of them saw it and decided to get even.” 

Hermione frowned. Skeeter. Now there was someone she could imagine having taken part in something like this. Hermione had never told Harry about her altercation with the woman in Diagon Alley on his birthday. She hadn’t wanted to ruin their evening with talk of the persistent gossip-monger. And now… Well, Harry hardly needed someone else to rage about. If Skeeter was involved with this, Hermione would find out and deal with the woman on her own. 

“You’re not being reasonable,” Hermione said at last. “The Malfoy’s barely escaped Azkaban, and Rowle wouldn’t want her own part in Delphi’s life made public.” 

“I am not being unreasonable!” Harry growled. “There’s no one else who knows, Hermione! Pull your head out of your—”

“Finish that sentence, Harry Potter, and you’ll be pulling my  _ shoe  _ out of  _ yours. _ ”

Harry gaped at her for several seconds before looking mildly ashamed and glancing furtively at the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.” 

Hermione forgave him, of course, given the circumstance, but she kept the fact to herself and sighed instead. 

“We’ve got to think through this logically,” she said, sitting down on the broken sofa and feeling herself list slightly toward the right. “We can’t do something rash and risk this”—she pointed at the crumpled note beside the spot where she sat—“becoming common knowledge. Can you imagine what the response would be? People would go mad.” 

“We’d have to go into hiding,” Harry said firmly. “I won’t have her in danger.” 

“Of course not.” Hermione patted the cushion beside her and motioned for Harry to sit, which he did. “We’re going to keep her safe, Harry. I promise.” 

Harry nodded stiffly and then dropped his face into his hands, his shoulders shaking. Hermione immediately stretched out a hand to stroke the top of his head lightly. How often had she done this in their years as friends? She could think of several times she’d offered the same comfort when they had been on the run and living out of that tent, hunting horcruxes. She remembered one particular instance vividly. Ron had been gone still, and Harry’s wand had been broken by her own rebounding curse during the fight with Nagini. He had been leaving her to take the first watch after an argument about Dumbledore and Skeeter’s awful biography. He’d closed his eyes when she had touched him, his face a reflection of his internal pain. He’d leaned into her for just a moment, and then he had let. 

He didn’t leave this time. Instead, he turned, wrapping his arms around her waist and leaning into her. He pressed his cheek to the swell of her breast and took a deep, quivering breath. 

“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “What I’d do if they found out. She’s my  _ daughter _ , Hermione, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t steal her. I know for a fact kidnapping is still a crime in our world.” His voice was muffled against the fabric of her blouse, and she ran her fingers through his hair. 

“You  _ rescued _ her,” she reminded him. “And I don’t think any court would convict you for that.” 

“I’d lose my job. I’d be sent to Azkaban. Delphi would probably be sent to live with the fucking Malfoys.” 

Hermione rubbed circles into his back and shook her head. 

“First of all, you’re richer than Croesus, so being sacked could hardly be the end of the world. Second, you are  _ not _ going to Azkaban. And third, Delphi would come to  _ me _ . I’m her godmother, and even if I had to take her and hide amongst the Muggles in Australia, I wouldn’t let anyone but you have her.” 

“Hermione—”

“Besides, it’s all a moot point. No one is finding out anything.” 

Harry leaned back and looked her in the face. 

“What am I supposed to do?” he asked, eyes red rimmed. 

Hermione thought about his question. She thought about telling Harry to pay the blackmailer, but knew that doing so would only cement the unknown criminal’s power over them. It would be a confirmation of the letter’s contents, and after that, they would never stop. There would be another letter, and another after that, and while Harry’s vaults were large indeed, and his supply of gold bewilderingly massive… well, nothing material was endless. A demand of ten thousand galleons now could easily turn to one hundred thousand the next month, and five hundred thousand after that. The person who had sent the demand was greedy, and a greed like that was never satisfied. 

What could they do? Given the nature of the secret held over them, they could hardly come clean and seek help elsewhere. Protecting Delphi was paramount, and if people knew—Hermione remembered the mail sent to her when the Wizarding world had thought her a scarlet woman, and shuddered. The world would never let her forget the blood that flowed through her veins. Delphi would never be able to shake the legacy of Lord Voldemort completely if their connection became public. Hermione couldn’t let that happen. 

“Give me two days,” she heard herself say. “Let me think and look into things, and if I can’t think of a better option…” Her voice trailed off, and Harry scowled. 

“We’ll have to pay them.” 

She nodded her agreement, and Harry swore. 

“Just promise me,” Hermione began again, “that you won’t do anything rash.”

Harry’s eyes shone hard as emeralds, and his jaw clenched briefly before he answered her. 

“Something rash? Doesn’t sound like me.” 

“Like hell.” 

“Hermione, I can’t just sit on my hands and pretend someone isn’t threatening my child.” 

“Of course not,” she soothed. She took his hand in hers and looked up at him pleadingly. “But you can promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid. Can’t you, Harry?”

The infuriating man took a full minute to answer her. He seemed to be warring within himself, his stubborn scowl refusing to budge as he thought through his response. At last, he nodded grudgingly, and Hermione sighed in relief. 

“Thank you,” she said, and then leaned in to kiss his brow. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you, or to Delphi. We’ve got to be rational about this. We need to be careful.” 

“Right,” Harry said, looking bitter but resigned. “Careful.” 

0-0-0-0-0-0

The Ministry of Magic

10 August 1999

The Department of Magical Law Enforcement was busy come mid morning, and as Hermione strode into the Auror bullpen—her lilac robes billowing around her—each and every one of the Aurors paused what they were doing to stare at her as if she were a dangerous intruder or an unsuspecting Muggle who had wandered in. 

“Hermione?” 

At the sound of Ron’s voice acknowledging her, the men and women who had stopped to take note of her all promptly returned to their tasks, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. Being under the scrutiny of a dozen of the Ministry’s finest Dark Wizard catchers had not been a particularly pleasant experience. 

“What are you doing here?” Ron jogged to Hermione’s side, brows furrowed as he peered down at her, and his blue eyes curious. “You know Harry called out sick today, don’t you?” 

Hermione nodded. “Yes. That’s actually why I’m here.” She glanced around them at the pack of Aurors at their desks and stopped herself from saying any more. “Look, is there anywhere private we can talk?” she asked, looking back up to meet Ron’s gaze. He nodded and took her by the elbow, guiding her through the maze of desks and clapping two of the Aurors on the shoulder as he quickly confirmed plans for later that evening when he passed by. Eventually, they reached a small, windowed room near a set of offices Hermione assumed belonged to the head of the department and the head Auror. There was a single long table in the middle of the room with a plain metal chair on either side, the only difference between the two being that one had metal chains and cuffs dangling from the arms and legs. 

“An interrogation room? Really?” Hermione glanced out of the windows around them and raised her wand to obscure them. 

“I wouldn’t do that,” Ron said, raising a hand to block the spell she was preparing to utter. 

“What? Why not?” 

“Do  _ that _ , and the lads are likely to think we’re having a tumble. Harry’ll never hear the end of it.” Ron was grinning and Hermione fought the urge to smack him. 

“In your dreams,” she said instead, lowering her wand all the same. 

“Not for a while now. Ouch!” Ron rubbed his reddened forearm vigorously. “Bloody hell, woman. I’m an Auror, you know!” 

Hermione, who did not regret the jinx she’d sent at him in the least, smiled sweetly. 

“Are you? Why don’t you arrest me then.” 

“I’m bloody well tempted,” Ron groused, but the pain of her jinx was fading already, and Ron was apparently in good spirits that morning, because instead of detaining her, he motioned for her to sit in the chair without the chains and warded the room to prevent anone overhearing them. 

Hermione stared at the table in front of her, making a face of her own and glancing back up at Ron as he sank into the seat opposite her. 

“Do people actually—you know—in here?” 

Ron arched a brow and said, “What, shag? Yeah. Loads.” 

“That’s disgusting,” Hermione said at once. “This is a workplace, not a brothel.” 

“Hey,” Ron objected, “I always scourgify afterwards. Ouch! Dammit, Hermione, if you jinx me again I will bloody well obscure the windows and let the lot of them draw their own conclusions!” 

Hermione, satisfied now, cleaned the table herself and then stowed her wand. “Stop being a baby. It’s just a mild stinging jinx. Look, its already fading.” 

“It’s not as if you have any right to be all high and mighty,” Ron continued, still perturbed. “Everyone knows what you and Harry got up to on his birthday.” 

Hermione blushed. “What Harry and I do in the privacy of his home is none of anyone else’s concern,” she said, refusing to act ashamed. 

“Hypocrite,” scoffed Ron. 

“We weren’t,”—Hermione lowered her voice and leaned forward—“We weren’t shagging in a public location. Nor were we on a surface with which any unsuspecting individual would be likely to come into contact with later.” 

“Sounds boring.” 

“Merlin, you’ve become an absolute cad.” 

Ron laughed and leaned back in his seat, tipping it backward onto two legs and propping his highly polished boots onto the table. 

“So is this why you brought me in here?” he asked. “To interrogate me about my love life? I never pegged you as the jealous ex-girlfriend type.” 

“Fucking hell,” Hermione muttered under her breath, choosing to ignore his barb completely. “I’m  _ here _ , because last night Harry received a blackmail letter.” 

Ron’s grin faded instantly, and his seat slammed back onto the floor with a loud thud as his boots followed close behind. “He got a what?” 

“A letter,” Hermione repeated. “Untraceable, and demanding ten thousand galleons by Thursday night.” 

“I know what blackmail is,” snapped Ron. “Who sent it?” 

Hermione gave him a withering look. “If I knew  _ that _ , I would have taken care of the issue,” she said, “not come to see you.” 

“What do they know?” demanded Ron. “Is this about the—” He glanced around, checking to see that none of the Aurors beyond the room were paying them any mind. “About the Horcruxes? Did they find out Harry…was one?” 

“No,” Hermione answered, and Ron breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Good, that’s good.” 

“It’s worse.” 

“Worse than someone knowing he had a bit of You-Know-Who in him his whole life?” 

Hermione nodded and bit her lip, closing her eyes as she steeled herself. She remembered for a moment the way Ron had reacted the first time he had learned of Delphi’s existence. 

_ The thing’s not worth worrying over. _

It had taken him so long to accept Delphi’s position in Harry’s life. In her own life. His reaction had ended their relationship. She wondered for a moment if she was a fool to bring this to him. But then, when she looked up at him, he was watching her with such an earnest, worried expression, that she quickly dismissed her doubts. She was reminded of his loyalty, and of the way he had delighted in watching Delphi open his own present to her the night before. If he still held the same opinion of her, would he have bothered to give her something so excessive? Material gifts were hardly a measure of esteem, but a life sized, wooden unicorn foal that trotted about the house and could bear the load of a small toddler safely was the gift of a favorite family member, not a suspicious enemy. 

“It’s Delphi,” Hermione heard herself say. “Someone knows.” 

Ron’s gaze hardened. 

“Knows what?” he said, not moving a muscle from where he sat. 

“Everything,” whispered Hermione. 

“Fuck.” 

To Hermione’s satisfaction, Ron looked livid, but while Harry had exploded into violent anger, Ron’s distress burned quietly, manifesting in clenched fists and a jaw so tense she thought it might break if she jostled it. 

“How?” he asked. 

Hermione shrugged. “I was hoping you might be able to help with that.” 

Ron’s eyes widened just slightly but he nodded. “Yeah, of course. Anything.” 

“Thank you,” said Hermione, and a tension she had not realized she had been holding faded from her body. 

“Is this why Harry’s not here then?” Ron had unclenched his fists and leaned forward in his chair, his concerned blue eyes meeting Hermione’s. She nodded, and Ron let out a soft exhale. “I should have known something like this would happen,” he said. “Damned Death Eaters can’t stop fucking up the lives of the people I love for one bloody second.” 

“Harry will be fine,” Hermione assured him. “I promise, we’re going to figure this out.” 

“I know  _ Harry _ will be fine,” Ron snapped, “But what about Delphi? If this gets out, it’ll ruin her life! She’s just a little girl!” Ron was shouting now, and though Hermione knew she should not encourage him raising his voice, she could not help the fierce swelling of pride in her chest. 

“You’re a good man, Ron,” she said, launching herself across the table and hugging the redhead fiercely. He stiffened for a moment and then hugged her back. They stayed that way for several seconds before Ron spoke again. 

“Maybe we should have obscured the windows afterall.” 

This time Hermione went about things the Muggle way, thumping him on the back of the head before releasing him as he winced and then smiled at her. The moment only lasted for a few seconds before they both remembered the problem facing them. 

“What do you need?” aked Ron, his expression growing serious once more. 

Hermione settled back into her chair and leaned forward, folding her hands on the table and staring intently at them for a moment before she dared to look back up at Ron. 

“Nothing too bad,” she told him, “Just some names. I’ve got an odd feeling about the letter. Harry thinks it’s the Malfoys, or maybe the woman who had her when we…” she let her voice trail off, remembering the condition Delphi had been in when they had found her. 

“When you saved her.” Ron caught her eye and nodded for her to continue. 

“Yes. I don’t think it's either of them though,” she confided. “It could be Skeeter, but I doubt she’d be stupid enough to publish the article she put out yesterday if she was going to blackmail Harry that evening.” 

“Unlikely,” Ron agreed. 

“And so we’re not really left with very many suspects.” 

“I could investigate—” Ron began to offer, but Hermione shook her head. 

“We can’t involve the Ministry,” she said firmly. “There would be too many questions, and we can’t risk  _ anyone _ else knowing the truth. Promise me you won’t work on this while you’re on the job.” 

Ron frowned but nodded. “Off the clock only,” he agreed. “No ministry resources.” 

“Aside from the names,” said Hermione. 

“How many names?” 

“Just the Voldemort supporters still at large. Anyone you lot are keeping an eye on.” 

Ron’s brows were arched high, and he exhaled slowly. “Is that all?” he asked, as if her request were not likely to be an easy one. 

“And the families or close friends of anyone who has been investigated, arrested, or incarcerated as a result of the war.” 

“Bloody hell, ‘Mione.” 

“I know it’s a lot,” she began, but Ron cut her off. 

“Damn right it’s a lot! It's not like there’s a list we keep lying about. Anyone we’re investigating is assigned to a specific Auror team. Only the Department Head would know who all’s suspected of sympathising, and I seriously doubt he’d just offer me his list.” 

“Can’t you go through Incident Reports? I know you lot file an impressive amount.” 

“Godric Fucking Gryffindor,” Ron swore. “Do you know how long that would take? How suspicious it would look if I started calling up other Auror’s reports? I’d have to break a dozen policies to make this possible.” 

Hermione bit her lip and steeled her nerve. 

“Please, Ron. If we don’t have the names, we don’t have a place to start.” She reached across the table and grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly within her own as she met his gaze. “There’s someone out there who knows. They know about Delphi and who she was born to, which means they know Harry’s story about the Dursley’s was a lie. We have to find them, because every second they have this information, Delphi is in danger. Can you imagine what people would do if they found out the truth? She’s just a baby. She shouldn’t have to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.” 

Ron watched her, his gaze inscrutable. “And if you find them? What then? What are you prepared to do to keep this secret, Hermione?” 

She released his hand and leaned back in her chair, biting her lower lip as she wondered how he wanted her to respond. Ron was an Auror now, and he took pride in his job. He shined his bloody boots and pressed his uniform and came to work each day with a spring in his step because he knew he was doing something good, something  _ right _ . Would he want to hear the truth from her about this? Would he help her if he knew that Hermione would stop at nothing—not Obliviation or Unforgivables—to keep Delphi safe?

“Anything,” she confessed. 

Ron sat there, utterly still for several seconds before responding. 

“I’ll get you your list,” he said at last.

“Thank you—”

“But if you and Harry get yourselves thrown in Azkaban over this, I’ll kill you. I’d do anything to protect the girl—she’s my best friend’s daughter—but we’re not Death Eaters, Hermione. We’re better than them. Don’t forget that.” 

0-0-0-0-0-0

Ron walked Hermione out of the interrogation room, his expression far less jovial than when they had entered. She allowed herself to be led through the desks, buzzing with activity as she avoiding the gazes of their occupants and considered Ron’s final words to her. It wasn’t until she heard a familiar name on someone’s lips that she faltered. 

“Potter?” she said aloud, turning with furrowed brow to face the auror who had spoken. 

“Harry?” asked Ron, looking confused. 

“Haven’t you heard yet, boy?” said a thin, grizzled looking Auror from across the bullpen. “Potter got himself sent to St. Mungo’s. Robards just received word.” 

  
  



	29. Chapter 29

Malfoy Manor

10 August 1999

Hermione was going to kill him: as he Apparated onto the lane outside of Malfoy Manor, it was the only thing he was sure of. When she found out where he had been, she would murder him and string his body up for any future lovers to find, probably with the word “liar” etched onto his cock in boils. And, honestly, he would probably deserve it.   
  
Unless, of course, he was right, and he had been known to be right about the Malfoys a time or two before. When he had been convinced that Malfoy was a Death Eater, for example. Or when he’d felt the urge to travel to Wiltshire over a year ago to find the girl he had known only by her name on a faded old tapestry.   
  
In the distance, Harry heard a peacock crying. He exhaled, steeling himself for the confrontation he knew lay ahead, and then made his way toward the sound. Trekking to the front doors of Malfoy Manor had never been a pleasant experience, and this time was no difference. For as lovely as the grounds were—and they were lovely—they did little to make him forget being dragged through them in the dead of night, his face so swollen he could barely see and a persistent stinging beneath his skin that refused to abate. And fear. The sensation had been so palpable he could have choked on it: fear for himself, for Hermione, and for Ron. He had almost thought they’d been going to their death.   
  
He reached the front step in record time, taking a few moments to survey his surroundings (had there always been a fountain there?) and then adjusting his crimson, Ministry approved jacket before lifting the knocker on the door in front of him and letting it fall once, twice, three times.   
  
The door opened before the last knock had finished reverberating through the air. Harry stepped back, wand in hand before he realized it was not a Malfoy standing there, but a house-elf.   
  
“Tottsy, isn’t it?” said Harry, recognizing the elf from his last visit. The creature’s bulbous eyes widened for a moment before she nodded and then spoke.  
  
“Mr Potter. Mistress is not expecting company.” The house elf almost looked regretful, and Harry was very nearly sorry for what he was about to say to the poor thing.   
  
“You can tell your mistress there’s an Auror here to ask her some questions, and that if she doesn’t answer them to my satisfaction, I won’t be the only Auror in her home today.”   
  
Tottsy didn’t even quiver, only nodded once and disappeared with a crack of Apparition. She left the door open behind her, and as he had done before, Harry stepped into the entrance hall. This time, the gilded sconces on the wall were already lit, and Harry took a moment to study the room. Two long tables sat opposite one another against the walls, floral centerpieces overwhelming the already intricately carved wood. Behind the towering flowers, a posh looking paneling covered the walls from floor to ceiling.   
  
“Mr Potter.”   
  
Harry turned at the sound of his name. Narcissa Malfoy stood at the foot of an elegant looking staircase. She was dressed to perfection, her hair meticulously coiffed and her dress without a single visible crease. Behind her stood her husband. Lucius Malfoy was not nearly so well put together as his wife, and Harry wondered whether he was still recovering from his time spent in Azkaban, or if this was simply what a Lucius Malfoy who had had his wand snapped in two looked like. His hair—though tied back at the nape of his neck—was in disarray, his finely made robes were creased, and there was a hint of stubble at his jaw.   
  
“What an unexpected pleasure. Can we offer you some tea?” Narcissa’s voice was cordial, and Harry narrowed his eyes.   
  
“No,” he said. “I’m not here for your bloody hospitality.” He reached into his robes, grabbing hold of a crumpled piece of parchment and then flinging it in her direction. “Is this how you repay your debts?”  
  
Narcissa flinched at the motion and Harry watched as Lucius stepped down beside her, reaching into the pocket of his robe with one hand while simultaneously reaching across his wife with the other, as if to protect her. Harry noted the bitter look on the man’s face when the wand he hand been grasping at was nowhere to be found.   
  
The letter hit Narcissa’s skirt and fell to the floor at her feet.  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“You should know,” Harry spat. “It was you who sent it.”   
  
Lucius made an impatient noise and Narcissa laid a hand on his arm. The man stilled at her touch and then crossed his arms imperiously, looking away.   
  
“I assure you, the last thing either myself or Lucius would wish to do is enrage you,” she said at last, bending down to retrieve the parchment and then straightening again as she unfurled it to read. Her eyes flitted quickly across the surface of the paper, and Harry watched her intently for any sign that she recognized what was written there. Finally, when she looked up at him with wide eyes and a disturbed expression, Harry was forced to admit that her reaction seemed genuine.   
  
“What does it say?” Snapped Lucius after several seconds.   
  
Narcissa cleared her throat and handed him the letter. “It’s a blackmail note, darling.”   
  
This time, Harry studied Lucius. He nearly swore when the man betrayed nothing.   
  
“And you thought we had sent this?” Lucius looked up, his expression both arrogant and pitying. “I assure you, Mr Potter, even with the loss of all that the Ministry has seen fit to abscond from my vaults, I am perfectly solvent. I’ve no need of your meager ten thousand.”   
  
“You’re the only ones who know,” said Harry, struggling not to scream and seem a complete lunatic.   
  
“Certainly Euphemia is aware that you—”  
  
“Rowle?” Harry cut in as Narcissa objected.   
  
“Yes. A cousin of the Black family.”  
  
“Everyone’s a cousin of the Black if you go back far enough,” Harry dismissed. “And I Obliviated the bitch, so that still only leaves you.”   
  
If the Malfoy’s were shocked by his language, they didn’t say anything, only made their way toward him from where they stood by the stairs and then motioned him into a room to his right. Harry followed them grudgingly into an ostentatiously decorated room perhaps half the size of the drawing room he remembered from his first visit to the estate.   
  
“Please, sit.” Narcissa motioned to a low settee with gilded feet and took the opposite seat. Lucius didn’t sit at all, choosing instead to make his way to a sideboard with crystal decanters and bottles of expensive looking Wizarding liquor on top.   
  
“I’m not here for the pleasure of your company,” Harry said bitterly.   
  
“No,” said Narcissa, her voice both saccharine sweet and bitterly sharp. “You’re here to accuse us of blackmail and threaten us by virtue of your position at the Ministry. But there’s no reason you can’t do all that and drink tea at the same time.” She looked up then, her stare hard and unyielding as she waited for him to oblige her.   
  
Harry, angry but slightly convicted by her words, sat.   
  
“Tottsy!” Narcissa called into the room. The small house elf appeared at her mistresses words, waiting for a single word—"Tea.”—before disappearing once more. It was the work of a minute for the creature to prepare and serve the hot drink to all three of the rooms occupants, though Lucius’s cup was left untouched in front of a wingback chair as the man began to drink by the fire.   
  
“Now,” the woman said once the house elf had gone, “aside from my knowing about Delphini—” Harry bristled at the woman’s use of his daughter’s full name, but she persisted nevertheless. “Have you any other reason to believe we wish you ill?”   
  
Harry scoffed. “Aside from the fact that I killed your Dark Lord and you hate everything I stand for?”   
  
It was Lucius’s turn to make an impatient sound from where he sat, half turned away from the scene.  
  
“Something to say, Malfoy?”   
  
“Potter, I would have sent you bloody bouquet of unicorn horns for your trouble had I not been rotting in a cell soon after that abomination died.” Lucius took another drink and Narcissa made a small noise of disapproval before turning back to Harry.   
  
“We were not very… enthusiastic supporters, there at the end. You might say we were shown the error of our ways.”   
  
Harry rolled his eyes and pulled his wand, checking his tea for any tampering before he lifted it to take a sip. “Isn’t that the excuse you lot used to stay out of Azkaban after the first war?”   
  
“The difference being,” spat Malfoy, turning to face Harry now, “that the last time, that bastard hadn’t tried to murder my son!”   
  
Harry fell quiet as Narcissa sipped her tea, her expression inscrutable. He felt a sharp stab of sympathy and hated himself for it, but now that he was a father himself, Harry understood what the Malfoy’s must have felt when Voldemort had threatened their son. The sensation had probably been very much like how he felt now, knowing that someone, somewhere, held the power to throw Delphi’s life into complete disarray.   
  
“Look,” Harry said at last, “I appreciate that your position after the war was—difficult… but I can’t just forget what you did, not to me, not to Hermione, not to Ginny, or Dobby, or any of the multitudes of people that you controlled, tortured, or killed. You deserve to be in Azkaban, Malfoy, and the only reason you’re not still rotting there is because your wife—for some bloody reason I’ll never know—wanted you here.”   
  
Lucius’s eyes were gray, Harry realized, as he met the man’s gaze. Was that regret in their depths?   
  
“I’m very aware of my circumstances,” the man said, taking another drink from his glass before turning back to face the fire.   
  
“Yes.” Narcissa sipped her tea and then set the delicate china cup back down on its saucer. “Point being, Lucius and I have very little reason to wish you ill, given you liberated us and our property out from the hands of a mad man. Besides, the oath I gave you at our last meeting would have prevented me from sending you a letter such as the one you received. Your Miss Granger saw to that.” She paused, her head tilting to the side as she watched him for a moment before continuing. “Of course, you did kidnap my niece, so I suppose I can see why you might be wary.”   
  
“Kidnapped your—” Harry saw red. “Are you fucking kidding me?”  
  
“Watch your language with my wife, whelp,” Lucius growled.  
  
“Fuck you,” Harry returned, perhaps more petulantly than he would have liked, but who was Lucius Malfoy to tell him how to behave?  
  
“You took her from a home where she was cared for, for no other reason than your own spite of our family,” Narcissa continued, and Harry thought he might actually curse the woman if she didn't shut her mouth soon.   
  
“Cared for,” echoed Harry. “You call what Rowle—You call how I found her... cared for? You’re more twisted than I could have imagined.”   
  
“The home was clean and the woman had more than enough means to meet the child’s needs,” objected Narcissa. “She assured me that she had always wanted a child of her own, and was happy to step in after… after Bella.”   
  
At the mention of Lestrange, Harry’s blood boiled. After all this time, despite the gift the woman’s existence and choices had given him, he still could not help the reaction. And as for the load of hippogriff shit Narcissa had just spouted… Harry didn’t even know where to begin.   
  
“Did you even check on her, after you dropped her on some stranger’s doorstep?” He asked, voice strangled. “Did you bother to make sure she was okay, or did you cast her off the same way you would a pair of shoes you wore once?”   
  
Narcissa bristled. “If you’ll recall,” she said, “my entire family was arrested days after the battle. We had barely enough time to find a safe place for Delphini before they were on our steps. Can you imagine what the Aurors would have done if they had found her here? It wouldn’t have surprised me if that lot had killed her to save themselves the trouble of the paperwork.”   
  
“And after you were released?” Harry said, his voice growing louder with every word. “You couldn’t have taken ten bloody minutes to make sure she was still breathing before you went back to your ball gowns and teacups and—”  
  


“I was sentenced to house arrest without the privilege of a wand, a state which persisted until well after you absconded with the girl!”    
  
Harry deflated just a bit at her words, because no, he hadn’t remembered that. Even if she had wanted to check on the state of Delphi’s care, she wouldn’t have been able to. And then a thought occurred to him.    
  
“Why not send Draco?” He asked, bitterly.    
  
Narcissa’s gaze turned scornful. “Draco was… unaware of the child’s connection to the the Dark Lord. He thought she belonged to Rodolphus. We told him the man killed the girl before he was captured.” Harry couldn’t think of what to say in response, which was just as well, as Narcissa didn’t seemed to have finished. “Why do you care so very much about whether or not we saw the girl between Bella’s death and your kidnapping anyhow? It’s not as if you’ve any interest in bringing the girl around to get to know her family—”   
  
“I’m her family,” interrupted Harry. “The Weasley’s are her family. You’re just someone who abandoned her.”    
  
“We saved her,” Narcissa hissed, her manicured nails looking more like talons as she clutched her teacup tightly. “If the world knew—”   
  
“I SAVED HER!” Harry bellowed. “You left her to rot in her own filth!”    
  
Narcissa’s grey eyes widened and she set her teacup down on the table with a loud clink. Lucius stood and came to stand beside his wife, putting a hand to her shoulder and glaring down at Harry.    
  
“We left her more than enough,” Narcissa said, voice cold. “Gold and clothes and toys and Draco’s own crib.”    
  
“Rowle sold it,” said Harry flatly, “or vanished the lot when you had gone. When I found Delphi she was sitting in a rickety old crib, covered in shit and piss and bruises. Her skin was red and raw, and she was bloody well near hypothermic because the woman you paid to care for her, had left her naked under an—” his voice broke and Harry blinked back tears that were threatening to obscure his vision. “She’d left her under an open window and hadn’t fed her in at least a day.” The memory of her—his precious daughter—screaming silently into the night air, nearly overwhelmed him. He fought until he’d managed to shove the vision back down with the hell that was his own childhood.   
  
“So I don’t know about any gold, or clothes, or things you might have left her. I don’t know what Rowle told you to make you think she could care for Delphi, or even wanted to…but the bitch would have killed her if I hadn’t gone looking for her, and if she had died, you can believe I would have made you suffer for it.”    
  
When Harry forced himself to look back up at the Malfoy’s, he noticed the stricken expression on Lucius’s face, and the sorrow on Narcissa’s. Good, he thought. They deserved to feel badly about this. They’d left their own blood with hateful, abusive old woman, and had trusted that their name and their money would keep the child safe. They’d been wrong, and they should feel the same horror he had when he had found her. And Harry didn’t care if they hadn’t been able to check on her, or if they had been right to find her a home elsewhere, where the secret of her birth couldn’t haunt her… they’d chosen wrong. They were the reason his child had suffered. He hated them.

“Y-you’re lying,” stammered Narcissa. Were those tears in the woman’s eyes?    
  
“God, I wish I were.”    
  
The blonde woman blinked rapidly, her lashes fluttering as she looked away toward a window, hiding her face from Harry’s view. She stayed there for nearly a full minute as Harry tried to convince himself he shouldn’t curse these people over what had happened to his daughter. By the time she looked back at him, her gaze was steady and her eyes were bright with conviction.    
  
“It seems, Mr Potter, that we owe you yet another debt,” she said. Her words took Harry by surprise. “Not only did you free us from servitude, but you saved the life of one of our own.”    
  
“Delphi is not one of you,” said Harry.    
  
Narcissa shrugged, and Lucius shifted uncomfortably beside her. “Semantics,” she said. “The girl was my niece before she was ever your daughter. I was there when she was born, Potter. Your bond with her may have made her yours, but it did not erase her place in my heart, cold as it may be.”    
  
“If you think you have some sort of claim on her, you’ve bloody well got another thing coming,” Harry began, but Narcissa cut him off with an impatient toss of her head.

“No claim but one of affection,” she said, and then paused before continuing. “Bellatrix was not always so… deranged. Once, we were sisters. And when she was with Delphi… It felt almost as if my sister had returned to me.”

“Delphi is nothing like her,” Harry protested, but even as he spoke the words, they rang false in his ears. He saw the resemblance any time he looked at the girl, and while he knew the color of her hair looked to the casual observer like his own contribution to the child, he knew where those curls had really come from. He knew when she laughed where he had heard such a laugh before.

Narcissa gave him a pitying look but said nothing.

They sat there in uncomfortable silence as Harry inwardly cursed the Malfoys and Bellatrix Lestrange and Rowle and bloody fucking Tom Riddle for what they had done, and when he had run out of people to hate and questionable language to think toward them, he sighed. What he was left with, was the sure knowledge that without these people, he would not have Delphi, and he would be a million times poorer for it. And then, because his curiosity had always been stronger than his sense of self preservation, Harry heard himself ask, “How did it happen, anyway? Between your sister and… and Riddle.”    
  
Lucius choked on his drink, and Narcissa gave Harry a withering look.    
  
“The usual way, I would imagine. Bella was never one for girlish gossip.”    
  
“Merlin. No. NO. I meant, how did they…" He struggled to find a phrase that fit. “Get to the point where Delphi was even a possibility? Bellatrix was married. How did they hide the fact that they were— I mean how do more Death Eaters not know about Delphi?”    
  
To Harry’s surprise, Narcissa looked up at her husband, who had righted himself and was draining the rest of his drink.    
  
“Lucius, perhaps you might be more equipped to answer the boy’s question?”    
  
Harry bristled at being called a boy, but before he could protest, Lucius was speaking.    
  
“Bella was always the Dark Lord’s most fervent admirer,” he said. “Whereas I and many of my compatriots were offered into service by our own fathers, Bella came willingly.”    
  
“Was she in love with him?” Harry asked.    
  
From her seat, Narcissa nodded, face blank.    
  
“Certainly,” said Lucius. “But the Dark Lord had little interest in anything so banal as marriage. He used her in the ways that she offered, but tradition dictated she marry, and though he was attracted to her… charms… he would not deny Cygnus the prestige of a daughter married into the Lestrange family. Officially, their liaison ended with her engagement, but…” His voice trailed off, and Harry imagined he could fill in the blanks.    
  
“No one knew?” Asked Harry.   
  
Narcissa scoffed. “Everyone knew,” she said, her disdain evident. “Bella had no shame.”    
  
“Then why don’t more people suspect—”    
  
“Because you defeated the Dark Lord, idiot child,” snapped Lucius. “He disappeared, and Bella went to Azkaban. Years passed. A decade. More. By the time the Dark Lord returned Bella was mad and hideous to behold.”   
  
“So they were a perfect match then,” said Harry.   
  
Lucius almost smirked. “Quite. But they were more discreet this time. The Dark Lord was more private. I don’t like to imagine why.”    
  
“Lucius, don’t be crass,” Narcissa chided.    
  
“In any case, once Bella became…enceinte…she was hidden away here. The Dark Lord took great pains to make clear that his involvement in the unfortunate development was to be kept secret. Those who knew of her condition were told that the child was Rodolphus’s get. Rodolphus, of course, knew better, but was pleased to give his wife over to our master’s service, in whatever way he desired.”    
  
“Death Eaters,” muttered Harry, and Lucius glared in his direction.    
  
“I would never have allowed such a thing,” the man spat. “To use ones wife in such a manner to curry favor—the man was despicable.”   
  
“Using your child’s okay though?” snapped Harry.    
  
“You have no idea what you’re talking about, you stupid—”   
  
“Lucius, darling,” cautioned Narcissa, “calm yourself before you say something you’re liable to regret.”    
  
Lucious swore and strode back across the room, filling his glass with more brandy and taking another sip.    
  
“The information about Bella’s pregnancy was tightly controlled,” said Narcissa, ignoring her husband’s outburst. “Only a very few in the inner circle knew that she was pregnant, and of those who knew, only three knew the truth of the child’s parentage. We believed…” her voice trailed off again, as if she could not decide whether to tell Harry exactly what it was that they had thought.   
  
“What? What did you believe?”   
  
Narcissa sighed. “We thought that he was waiting until the war was won, and that once it was, if he had a son, he was planning to claim the child.”    
  
“Not a daughter?” 

Narcissa gave him another pitying look.    
  
“What use would a man such as he have for a daughter?”    
  
Harry brushed off the anger on Delphi’s behalf that her question provoked, focusing instead on the other piece of what she had said.   
  
“So no one, aside from the two of you and Lestrange, knew the truth?” he found that hard to believe.    
  
“If they knew, they gave no indication,” she said. “Rodolphus received many congratulations once his brethren came more frequently to the manor, and saw Delphini for themselves.”   
  
“And Rowle knew,” Harry added. “Before, you said that Rowle might have sent the letter. She must have known the truth.”    
  
Narcissa nodded stiffly.    
  
“We told her,” she said. “The woman’s brother was a true believer. In Azkaban now. We thought that if she knew, that she would be more likely to care for the girl. We were, obviously, wrong.”   
  
Harry’s mind began to work through the problem. If the Malfoys and Lestrange had been the only ones to know aside from Rowle, then his leads were gone. The more he spoke with the Malfoys the more evident it became to him that they had not been the ones to send the letter. That left Lestrange—who he knew for a fact was dead—and Rowle, who he had Obliviated. If he’d performed the charm correctly the woman wouldn’t even have remembered that a child named Delphini ever existed… If he’d gotten it wrong though… But then why would the woman have waited this long?

  
“Mother, I got the robes you ordered at Twilfitt's. Should I have Tottsy take them up, or would you like to see them first?” Draco Malfoy rounded the corner into the sitting room just as he finished his sentence, and then he caught sight of Harry sitting in front of his parents. He reached for his wand almost instantly, and Harry mirrored the Syltherin’s movements, standing at the same time.   
  
“What are you doing here, Potter?” Malfoy spat, edging toward his parents as if they needed protecting.   
  
Harry scowled at the man in return.   
  
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business, Malfoy,” he said, keeping his wand steady and trained on the ferret’s stupidly pointed face.   
  
“Draco, lower your wand,” hissed Lucius from beside the fire.   
  
“You can’t take him back,” Draco said, ignoring his father and finally succeeding in inserting himself between Harry and the elder Malfoys. “We were promised he could fulfill the sentence here. He hasn’t broken any terms of his parole.”   
  
“I can do whatever I want,” said Harry, feeling spiteful toward the boy who had taken it in turns to bully both of his best friends. Never mind that that boy was now a man grown, who Harry knew had been under a terrible strain during the war… the bastard was still an arse.   
  
“Leave my house, Potter,” said Malfoy.   
  
“Draco, really,” Narcissa cut in, her voice taking on the same placating tone he remembered Aunt Petunia using on Dudley when he was threatening to throw a tantrum. “We’re all being perfectly amicable here. Mr Potter was only—”   
  
“Leaving,” said Draco. “He’s leaving. I don’t care if you're an Auror or not, you’ll be welcome in my home over my dead body after what you put my parents through!”  
  
“Your father was a Death Eater,” said Harry, keeping his tone even. “His sentence is well deserved.”   
  
“You arsehole,” Draco swore.   
  
“Draco!” said Lucius.   
  
“Piss off, Malfoy. You were a bully in school, and you’re a bully now. I doubt you’ll ever amount to anything more.”   
  
Malfoy’s grey eyes flashed, and his grip tightened on the handle of his wand.   
  
“Is that what this is, Potter? You coming for revenge because I called your girlfriend a Mudblood in school?”   
  
Harry wanted to punch the fucker, but instead, he heard himself shout, “Stupefy!” Unfortunately, he was too slow. Trained Auror though he was, the slur Malfoy had uttered had blinded him with rage, and so he had missed the small hand mirror that the pale blond hand conjured wordlessly. Harry’s spell, which had been aimed at Malfoy’s chest, rebounded when it met the glass, shooting back at Harry, who almost managed to get out of the way. Unfortunately, he was just too slow, and the ricocheting spell hit his right shoulder, sending him spinning through the air and toward the wall behind him.   
  
At once, Harry was aware of a searing pain in his gut. His eyes fluttered shut as he began to lose consciousness, and he thought he saw something sharp, pointed, and coated in thick dark liquid protruding from a spot below his ribs. Before he could ponder the meaning of such a sight, everything went dark.


	30. Chapter 30

St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries

10 August 1999

Hermione raced onto the floor, Ron hot on her heels but unable to keep up despite his height. Her fear had made her swift, but as she careened around a corner and into the lobby outside of the Critical Care ward, Hermione was forced to come to a halt. A tall woman with silvery hair twisted into an elegant chignon stood between her and the entrance, her back to the room—but Hermione would have recognized her anywhere.

“Narcissa,” she said through clenched teeth. “What the hell are you doing here?”

The woman turned at the sound of Hermione’s voice, and Hermione’s heart nearly stopped at the sight of blood on the woman's hands and robes.

“Miss Granger,” said Narcissa. “You heard what happened.” It was a statement, not a question.

“What the hell did you do?” asked Ron, who had come to a stop beside Hermione and drawn his own wand.

“Easy, Weasley,” said a gruff voice to their left. Hermione turned and noticed the graying man in the corner. An Auror.

“What happened, Dickens?”

“Don’t rightly know,” said the man. “Waiting for Potter to come round and answer some questions.”

“Mr Potter was visiting us in our home this morning,” said Narcissa. She sounded as if this were not the first time she had told the story. “There was an accident, and he fell… there was a spear involved.”

“A spear?!” Hermione’s voice was shrill but she didn’t care. Ron, however, winced. “What was he even doing in Wiltshire?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to ask him,” said Narcissa. “We never really got around to the purpose of his visit.”

She was lying, Hermione could tell by the stubborn set of the woman’s jaw. And Hermione thought she knew why.

“Move,” she demanded, and was surprised when Narcissa stepped graciously aside.

She opened the door onto the ward with a wave of her wand and ignored the sound of Ron making excuses for her to his fellow Auror. She didn’t give a damn what the man thought, or what Ron said, what she needed now was to find Harry, make sure he was alive and going to recover, and then strangle him.

She blew past two mediwitches who tried to get her to sign in, then started peeking behind curtains despite their protests. At last she found the one behind which a tall, bearded man who had bandages wrapped around his otherwise bare abdomen, lay resting.

Hermione felt a hand on her upper arm and turned violently, her hair swinging and her fingertips crackling with energy as she felt magic begin to build beneath her skin.

“Get your bloody hands off of me,” she hissed at the ancient looking wizard who had come to try and collect her. “Or I swear to God, Merlin, and the bloody fucking devil, I will hex your head from your shoulders and feed it to my owl.”

The man’s formerly annoyed expression changed swiftly into one of terror, and he backed out of the area before rushing away. He was probably going to find the Auror in the lobby. She wished him good luck with that.

In bed, Harry groaned. Hermione turned back and narrowed her eyes at him.

”Look at me,” she demanded.

He groaned again, and his face grew pale and pinched looking as he strained to sit up, eyes still closed.

Hermione made an impatient sound and pushed him back onto the bed by his shoulder. Clearly he wasn’t getting ready to die if he was trying to strain himself like that.

“Don’t be an idiot,” she said. “Lie still.”

“Hermione?” Harry asked, and his eyes fluttered open. They were bright emeralds in his ashen face.

“You’re an arsehole,” Hermione said promptly. “You promised me, Harry Potter! You told me you would wait, and you couldn't even give me twenty-four bloody hours before you swanned off to nearly get yourself killed!”

“To be fair,” said Harry, who sounded far less robust than usual, “that wasn’t exactly my intention.”

“Intentions be damned, you blithering fool!”

“Madam!” The ancient healer had returned, this time with reinforcements.

“Sod off,” Hermione said, giving them all a contemptuous look before using her wand to put up the protection wards she had perfected during her year on the run. It took her under a minute, and by the time she was done they could neither touch, see, nor hear the two of them.

“I don’t think that’s allowed,” Harry said weakly, and she could tell he regretted it by the time she rounded on him.

“What were you thinking?” she demanded. “ _ Were _ you thinking?”

Harry tried to sit up again, and Hermione took pity on him. She propped two pillows behind him and then sank into the little chair at his bedside.

“You could have been killed,” she said at last, eyeing his bandages and then forcing herself to look back up at his face. Was that contrition she saw there?

“I wasn’t though,” he said, and it sounded as if he were trying to comfort her. She found it oddly soothing despite how furious she was with him. Despite her anger, she had been terrified on their trip to the hospital. Terrified that something irreparable had happened to him, that she’d be left to raise Delphi on her own and mourn him for the rest of her days. Terrified that she’d never get to see him smile, or feel his warm lips against hers again.

Her expression hardened.

“Sheer dumb luck,” she said. “You can’t do this any more Harry. You’re not fifteen and alone in the world. You have a daughter, for Circe’s sake! How do you think she’d have felt if you’d never come home?!”

And then a thought occurred to her, and she went very pale.

“Where is Delphi? You didn’t take her to see the Malfoys did you?”

“Of course not,” answered Harry. “She’s with Andromeda and Teddy.”

Hermione’s heart resumed a normal rhythm, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank God. I don’t want them around her.”

Harry looked at her curiously and then shrugged with a little effort and a pained expression. “They wouldn’t hurt her, I don’t think,” he said. Hermione turned her own shocked look on him and he continued. “I don’t want them babysitting or anything, that’s for damn sure, but I don’t think they mean her any harm.”

Hermione found that incredibly difficult to believe. “They just landed you in the hospital, Harry.”

“Yeah.” Harry blushed. “I think that was my fault, actually.”

“Your fault? Harry, you look as if you’ve lost a gallon of blood. Am I supposed to believe you fell and nicked yourself on a bloody spear?”

Harry looked the teensiest bit embarrassed and shook his head.

“I impaled myself, actually,” he admitted. Now it was Hermione’s turn to grow ashen.

“Impaled—Harry how the hell does one—”

“I tried to hex Malfoy.”

“Narcissa?!”

“The ferret,” Harry said, scowling now. “I lost my temper. He called you a… well, you know the sorts of things he calls you. I tried to stun him, but the git was too quick. Conjured a fucking mirror and made the bloody thing rebound. It caught me in the shoulder and wouldn’t have been an issue, but the Malfoys—peacocks that they are—have a bloody suit of armor in their living room. Curse sent me spinning into the thing, and I caught the spear in my gut.” 

The story was ridiculous, and if Hermione hadn’t known Harry for nearly half of her life, she might have doubted it. As it stood, though, she knew that Harry was prone to rashness and cursing before thinking things through when he was defending the people he loved. 

“I see. Well. I certainly hope the incident taught you a valuable lesson.” 

Harry gave her a dirty look, and Hermione felt a warm bubble growing in her chest. She grinned at him in response and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his cheek and then wrapping her arms around his neck and laying her own cheek on his shoulder. 

“I’m so glad you’re alright,” she said, voice low. 

Harry groaned again as he shifted enough to allow his arm to wrap around her, then kissed the top of her head. 

“Will the Malfoys see any repercussions?” Hermione asked. 

“No. It was my own damn fault. I’ll tell them I hexed first and Malfoy kept his wand in his pocket.” 

Hermione nodded, satisfied and then burrowed her face into his neck, smelling the sweat and the blood and the unmistakable musk of him, and thanking all the stars in the sky that he was safe.

The Ministry of Magic

12 August 1999

Harry returned to work two days later, his wounds completely mended, but his pride laid low.

The aftermath of the altercation at Malfoy Manor had not been pretty. His fellow Aurors had detained Narcissa upon their arrival, shortly after he had been admitted. The woman had brought him by Floo to St Mungos, and then she had sat for hours in the lobby, her wand confiscated and covered in his blood, which she had done her level best got keep inside of his body on their short journey. It had taken Harry, rising from his bed with his wound half healed and forcing his way out of the ward to get her released. It had also taken him explaining himself… which had not gone well.

Once Robards had caught wind that one of his Junior Aurors had gone to confront a family of former Death Eaters because he had a “gut feeling” about something, he’d left the Ministry and come directly to the hospital, where he had proceeded to lay into Harry in front of the entire room full of people and then place him on probation. He’d only avoided suspension, Robards said, because he was a bloody war hero, even if he was also a—and Harry knew he would never have trouble remembering this particular insult—glory seeking dragon taint.

“Lost in thought, mate?”

Ron sat on Harry’s desk, drawing his attention from the report he was writing for the Head Auror.

“More like lost the plot,” muttered a middle aged woman who sat in the desk to his right.

Ron chortled but caught himself, sending the woman a disapproving look as he schooled his expression and crossed his arms. “Got plans for lunch?” he asked.

Harry shook his head. “Gonna work through.”

“Come on, Harry, I know you're on probation, but you’ve got to eat. I bet 'Mione’d even join us. I could send her a memo and ask.” Ron drew his wand and pointed it at the stack of lilac parchment papers waiting to be written on.

“Not today,” Harry said, shaking his head. “After this, I’ve got work.”

Ron sighed and stood up straight, uncrossing his long arms and letting them swing freely at his side again.

“Right. Well, you change your mind, let me know.” And then he was off, making his way across the room and out of the bull pen along with several other witches and wizards.

Once his bright red hair had disappeared, Harry glanced around him to make sure everyone was immersed in their own tasks. Satisfied that no one was paying him any mind, he stood and made his way across the room to the double doors he knew led to Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, as well as a large room where records were kept alongside the occasional artifact.

He walked into the room as if he were meant to be there and moved directly to the wall of cabinets on the far side, walking past them until he reached one with the letter R stamped onto the front. It took him several minutes to rifle through the mess. Summoning all the pertinent files might have worked if the subject of his interest hadn’t belonged to a long line of apparently hardened criminals. As it was, it took Harry longer than he had anticipated to wade through the many Rowle’s on offer, until at last he found the one that interested him.

Thorfinn Rowle, he read. Age, height and weight, identifying features… it was all listed there for his perusal, and then, farther down, the charges and sentence.

Life in Azkaban, currently serving the document said. Harry swore. Well, there was another dead end. Documents like these were much like the clock on Molly Weasley’s wall at the Burrow. They updated magically according to the prisoner’s status. If Rowle had escaped, the file would tell him. A bloody pity the system hadn’t been in place when Crouch escaped.

Replacing the file, Harry went through the list he had been keeping in his head, of all the people he could reasonably suspect of knowing the truth about Delphi. The Death Eater Rowle was still in prison. Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange had committed suicide on the same day inside of Azkaban. A list that had already started small had dwindled to one.

Euphemia Rowle.

He should have done more than just hex and Obliviate her. He chastised himself for even thinking it. Either way, though, she would need to be checked on. Hermione, of course, would protest. He’d have to convince her. He had, indeed, learned his lesson after the mishap at the Malfoy’s. He’d been hasty, emotional, and stupid. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again, not when Delphi was depending on him… But he couldn’t ignore the reality that someone was threatening her. He couldn’t do nothing. So he would do something with Hermione. On her terms. God knew she was at least twice as smart as him and a hell of a lot less reckless. He could use her help. 

When reached the bullpen once more, he noticed Hermione sitting at his desk, using his quill to jot something down on a piece of parchment. 

Think of the devil and she shall appear, he thought, amused. 

“Can I help you, miss?” 

She looked up at the sound of his voice, jumping a little guiltily and then smiling. 

“There you are. I was about to leave without you.” 

“Where are you off to?” 

“The  _ Daily Prophet _ ,” she answered. “Your solicitor just flooed me, and everything is in order. I was planning to swing by during lunch.” 

Harry grinned. 

“Please tell me you’re going to give me a pensieve full of your memories when you’re done,” he said. 

“You could always come,” said Hermione. 

Harry leaned down and gave a lingering kiss before withdrawing and shaking his head. 

“Probation,” he reminded her. “One toe out of line, and all that.” 

“Right.” She sighed theatrically, and Harry held his hand out to her, helping her up out of the seat and giving her just one more kiss, because it had been far too long since the last one already. 

“Go on then,” he said when he was done. “I expect a full report once you’ve finished.”

“Aye aye, captain.” Hermione smirked and straightened her skirt before making her way toward the door. She gave him one last lingering look, and then disappeared through it. 

Harry watched her go, feeling better than he had in days, and then leaned down to read the half written note she’d left. 

_ Harry, _

_ Papers are final, and I have them in hand. THANK YOU. Off to the  _ Daily Prophet _ now. Can’t wait to—  _

Truth be told, he could hardly wait either.

The  _ Daily Prophet _

Her charcoal skirt was knee length and her shirt a vibrant crimson beneath finely cut black robes; she cut an impressive figure, and as she walked, her high heels clicked against the hardwood floor in a satisfying way. As first, no one looked up, but when it became apparent that she was heading for the large corner office and showing no signs of stopping, a posh looking receptionist sprang up out of her seat and called out to her. 

“Excuse me, miss! You’ve got to sign in over here, you know!” 

Hermione stopped her determined stride and turned slowly to face the girl. She looked familiar, and Hermione had the distinct impression that if the brunette were in Hogwarts robes she would be able to place her. 

“I have business with Mr Cuffe,” Hermione said, giving the receptionist her very best reassuring smile. 

“Is he expecting you?” 

Hermione’s grin widened, and the receptionists expression grew wary. 

“I hope not.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t let you back without an appointment,” said the girl, and Hermione gave her a condescending look just as she finally managed to place her. 

“Look, Margot, isn’t it?” The receptionist nodded, looking a bit flustered now. “My name is Hermione Granger—” a hum of excitement began to grow around them as the reporters who sat at the plethora of desks in the room began to murmur and stare. Hermione continued. “I’m positive that your employer will want to have a chat with me.” 

“Let her back, girl,” came a gruff voice from behind Hermione, and Margot Winters (who had been a Slytherin prefect when Hermione was a third year) blushed before nodding once and sitting back down with a huff. 

“Thank you,” said Hermione, and then turned back to face the room. A large man with blond hair and broad shoulders nodded in her direction before turning his attention back to the parchments on his desk. The rest of the rooms occupants, however, continued to stare. Hermione waited for a beat before continuing on her way to the corner office, and she had almost reached it when the door swung forward, very nearly catching her in the shoulder on its way.

“What the bloody hell is all this racket about?! I can barely hear myself think!” The man who barreled through the doorway and past Hermione was rotund, with a large, bristling mustache and a halo of thin greying hair beneath a shiny bald patch. Hermione’s lip curled involuntarily at the sight of him and she took a moment to compose herself as he continued. 

“You morons aren’t paid to sit about nattering. You’re here to write! So close your mouths and get to it, or you’ll find yourself working for Xenophelius Lovegood before you can say ‘thestral shit’, which is about what the lot of you are worth.” 

Hermione stood by, watching as the employees bent to their work, ducking behind desk dividers and falling instantly silent. The large man seemed to puff with pride for a moment and then turned to head back into his office. Only then did he see that someone was standing in the doorway. 

“Who the hell are— Merlin, you’re Hermione Granger!” 

“Barnabas Cuffe, I presume?” 

The man sputtered for a moment before nodding and wiping the palm of his hand over his bald patch and then over the sleeve of his robes. Hermione made a note to not shake the man’s hand. 

“Can I help you, miss?” he asked, and shot a glare back at the room, his ire narrowing in on the receptionist for a moment, who seemed to shrink in her seat.

“Yes, actually. I’ve come about a bit of business,” Hermione answered, drawing his attention back to herself. 

Barnabas Cuffe turned to face her, pasting on a smile she wouldn’t have mistaken for genuine at twenty kilometers. 

“Come to give an interview?” he asked. “Your opinion on the piece we published recently, perhaps? An inside scoop? We can be very discreet.” 

Hermione laughed, the sound surprisingly warm as she watched the man try to ingratiate himself to her. 

“I think not,” Hermione said, drawing her wand and flicking it once to conjure a plain manila folder which she began to leaf through. “I’m actually here to check in and inspect the place.”

Heads began to pop up all around the room once more and Hermione smiled as she caught Margot Winters’ eye, then looked back at Cuffe. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m here to inspect the property, Mr Cuffe,” Hermione clarified, “And to conduct a bit of business before I go.” 

The poor man was confused, and Hermione enjoyed watching him flounder. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, giving him a pitying look, “Have you not heard?” 

“Heard what?” he asked, his voice sharp. 

“About the sale,” Hermione answered. “Mr Claremont assured me he would send you an owl at his earliest convenience. Has it not arrived yet?” 

“Mr Claremont?” 

“Yes. The former owner of the  _ Daily Prophet _ .” 

“Former?” asked one of the reporters who sat beyond Cuffe. 

“Quite,” Hermione agreed. “Thank you for clarifying.” 

The same gruff man who had spoken to Margot before began to laugh as Barnabas Cuffe’s face turned white and then flooded with color. 

“I don’t know what the meaning of this is—” he said. “But Mr Claremont would never sell the—” the rest of the man’s sentence was cut off by the screeching of an owl swooping into the room through one of the upper windows and diving toward his head. Cuffe dodged awkwardly and the envelope the tawny owl had carried in its beak landed on the floor in front of Hermione. 

“There’s the owl,” Hermione said with a smile. She watched as it flew once around the room and then settled on a perch with fresh water and owl treats. “Would you like to read the letter, or would you rather view the bill of sale I have here with me?” 

The burly blond still had not stopped laughing and at her desk, the receptionist seemed to be struggling to maintain her composure. 

Barnabas Cuffe leaned down to retrieve the letter and opened it hastily, his yellowed eyes scanning the contents before flickering back up to Hermione in disbelief. 

“You’ve bought the  _ Daily Prophet _ ? But you’re a Muggleborn!” 

The other occupants of the room began to murmur and a few hissed in Cuffe’s direction before Hermione nodded and cocked her head to the side.

“Are we stating the obvious?” She asked, keeping her voice as saccharine sweet as she could manage. “Why don’t I give it a go?” She crossed her arms and looked the man over, from the top of his balding head to the tips of his ridiculous looking scarlet boots. Her lip curled. 

“You’re unemployed,” she said, and then added, “Show yourself out. I’ll send your things to you before the end of the day.”

“I  _ beg _ your pardon? _ ”  _ shouted Cuffe, his mustache trembling and his jowls quivering. “You can’t just  _ fire _ me. I’m the editor of this publication! Without me, this paper is NOTHING!” 

“Hmmm,” Hermione hummed, letting her gaze leave the incensed man long enough for her to survey the room and its stunned occupants. “And here I was under the impression that without you, this paper would still have a vast array of subscribers and a staff of…mostly, serious and talented journalists. How silly of me.” 

“Look here, girl,” Cuffe continued, and the spittle that had been clinging to his mustache flew toward her as he reached a hand in her direction to stop her from turning into his office. 

“Protego,” Hermione said, her voice dangerously low as a glittering shield exploded from the tip of her wand and snapped outward, sending the former editor of the  _ Daily Prophet _ reeling backward to land on his arse. She thought she heard someone in the room give a triumphant whoop at the sight, but couldn’t be sure because at that moment the door to one of the smaller offices on the other side of the room swung open, and the reason she had allowed Harry to buy her the bloody newspaper in the first place stepped into the room, stiff blonde curls barely moving on her head and long nails so red they looked as if they’d been dipped in blood. 

“Miss Granger,” the woman smiled broadly before catching sight of Cuffe, struggling to pick himself off of the floor where Hermione’s spell had landed him. Her practised smile faltered. “What’s going on here?” 

“I’m afraid the  _ Daily Prophet  _ is under new management, dear,” Hermione said, her own grin completely genuine now. God, how she had fantasized about this moment. From the first time Skeeter had published an article with her name in it, the young Miss Hermione Granger had begun to concoct all sorts of vengeful plans. She had thought that once she had carried one out, Skeeter would be less of an issue. And she had… for a time. Of course then the sad excuse for a journalist had begun to target Delphi, and Hermione’s fleeting fantasies had become more focused, and much more satisfying. 

“What are you smirking about?” Skeeter snapped as she rushed forward to help Cuffe off of the floor. The man lurched awkwardly to his feet, his grip on Skeeter’s robe pulling it askew. “Barnabas, what’s she talking about?” 

“I’d like to see you in my office, Rita,” Hermione continued as if Skeeter hadn’t spoken. 

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” the reporter snapped, never taking her eyes off of Cuffe. “Barnabas, have her escorted out.” 

Hermione sighed. 

“Very well, we’ll conduct our business here. You’re being let go, Rita.” 

The woman’s eyes flashed, and her nostrils flared as she finally focused her gaze back on Hermione. 

“Not bloody well likely,” she hissed. “And how positively  _ sad _ of you to come here acting as if you—a common little Muggleborn tramp—have some sort of power just because you’re fucking the Boy Who Lived. I’ve had your desperate little number since you were fourteen, Granger, and all of the Wizarding World will hear about this ridiculous, ill conceived power play of yours in tomorrow's paper. Lets see how long Potter stands by you when he realizes you’ve got a screw loose in your head.” 

Hermione stood still throughout Skeeter’s tirade, watching the woman’s cherry red lips flash over slightly yellowed teeth. When Skeeter, Hermione tilted her head to the side. She could feel the eyes of everyone in the room on her, and she knew that neither the deed in her hand nor all the money the world would earn her the respect of the reporters around her, respect she would need to transform the  _ Daily Prophet _ from a gossip mongering rag, to a serious and ethical publication. 

So she smiled indulgently, folded her arms, and peered at Skeeter as if she were a particularly interesting insect. 

“I understand you must be shocked,” said Hermione, “but let’s not make any more of a scene. I’m sure both you and Mr Cuffe would prefer to keep the dignity you do have intact.”

“Listen here you bitch—” Cuffe had found his voice once more, but Hermione raised a hand to silence him and continued speaking. 

“You have three minutes to see yourselves out before I call the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and have you forcibly removed. As for the rest of you,” Hermione said, turning her attention to her audience for the first time since entering the room, “I apologize for the dramatic interruption, and I would like to see each of the department heads in my office before the end of the day. Please, come in at your own convenience.” 

“You’re making the biggest mistake of your life, little girl,” Cuffe spat when Hermione turned back to glance at him. 

She shrugged. 

“Perhaps, but you won’t be around to witness the aftermath, will you?” 

The man made an angry noise and spat on the floor in her direction, but Hermione only continued to stare at him, unimpressed until at last he turned and stormed toward the exit, pausing only to call for Skeeter to join him. The reporter stood still for a moment longer, ignoring the man’s call as her eyes burned with rage in Hermione’s direction. 

“You think this little power play will end well for you?” she hissed. “That the public will forget what I told them about Potter and his tiny little muggle baby? They  _ never _ forget, Granger. They’ll always wonder whether the girl actually is his bastard by some Muggle whore, and whether he’s been diddling the girl in that townhouse of his when he’s not taking advantage of his Ministry connections. And when I find out the truth, there won’t be a paper in all of England who will turn down the chance to publish it!” 

Hermione had expected to feel rage when confronted by Skeeter’s venom. She had known that an explosion like this would be inevitable once the witch was fired, and that the easiest target of her lies would be Delphi… she’d prepared herself to hear it all and then to dismiss the boiling anger she knew she would feel… but she had not expected this relief welling inside of her. 

“Goodbye, Rita,” she said at last, and then turned, stepping into the editor’s office and closing the door firmly behind her. The sound of Skeeter’s shrieks and the murmur of voices beyond were not silenced, only deadened, but Hermione let out a sigh all the same as one thought seemed to echo in her own mind. 

If in her desperation Skeeter was still spewing the same vicious lies she’d inserted into her article three days ago, it meant she didn’t have anything better to fall back on. She didn’t know the truth of Delphi’s birth, and that meant one less person to worry about. Skeeter was a nuisance, but not a real threat, and the realization made Hermione smile. 

  
  



	31. Chapter 31

Granger Residence

20 August 1999

Harry was late, and by the time Hermione answered the door they had missed their reservation. Harry felt awful and was about to explain himself when Hermione took one look at him and Delphi and began to fuss over them. 

“Oh Harry, you two look awful. What happened?” 

Peering down at the little girl clinging to his leg, he had to agree. Her face was still red from the tantrum she had thrown that evening, her cheeks covered in streaks of drying tears and snot that he had missed when he had tried to wipe her face with a damp flannel. Her hair, which he normally managed to keep looking as if he had at least tried to tidy it, was in complete disarray atop her head and around her shoulders. And her pyjamas, which had been the last clean pair in the house, were covered in the evidence of the dinner she had upended over herself. 

Of course, he wasn’t looking much better. The robes he had meant to wear had also been casualty to his daughter’s massive fit, and he had not had the time to get the smell of marinara sauce out of them. Instead, he had donned a pair of denims and a button up shirt that had grown a bit too tight around the shoulders. 

He really should have done laundry the day before. 

“Someone wasn’t interested in getting ready for bed,” he answered at last. 

“My!” shrieked Delphi, when she finally got the courage to look up. The little girl catapulted herself into Hermione’s arms, and Harry watched as she scooped the child up into a big hug that made his heart twinge. 

“Daddy mean!” 

Harry winced and then gave the girl a disbelieving look when she threw a scowl over Hermione’s shoulder in his direction. 

“Was he, darling?” Hermione cooed. Was that a smirk on her lips? “Shall I talk to him about it?” 

“Yes. My talk Daddy. Daddy calm down. Time out, Daddy!” 

“Certainly,” Hermione assured the girl, patting her on the back and then pulling her back so that she could look her in the eye. “Now, are you ready to play with My’s Mummy and Daddy? They’re very happy you’ve come to visit.” 

Delphi seemed to think about it for a moment and then nodded. 

“Yes. I play.” She paused, looking back at her father with a frown. “No bed. Bed go away.” 

Harry held up his hands in surrender and watched as Hermione grinned broadly and stepped back into the house. He followed them into the kitchen where Helen and Frank sat at the table with twin cups of tea. Hermione sat Delphi on the counter and proceeded to clean her face and pull off the pyjama stained pyjama top she wore. 

“Do you have a spare change of clothes in that bag?” she asked, pointing at the diaper bag Harry at slung across his back. He nodded. “Hand it over, will you? She can wear it until this stuff’s done in the wash.”

“Hello, Harry,” Helen greeted, looking amused. “Rough night?” 

He blushed and nodded, handing the little yellow sundress over to Hermione. “Evening, Mrs Granger. Mr Granger.” 

“Good to see you, Harry,” said Frank. “You’ve got something on your cheek there.”

Harry flushed again and leaned to check his reflection in the shining surface of the nearby window. More spaghetti sauce. It had dried into his beard. 

“Do you mind if I clean up a bit in the bathroom?” 

“Not at all,” Hermione said, tickling Delphi and making her giggle as she slid the dress on over her head. “I’ll get Delphi settled with mum and dad and be ready in a minute or two.” 

By the time Harry had finished making himself presentable and made his way back into the kitchen, Delphi was sitting on Frank’s knee and happily munching on a biscuit. Sensing that it was now or never, Harry leaned down to give her a kiss, said goodbye to her and thank you to Mr and Mrs Granger, and made a hasty retreat with Hermione. Once they had reached the porch he breathed again, ignoring Hermione’s tinkling laughter and choosing to enjoy the moment instead. He loved his daughter fiercely, but some days it was a relief to see her fall asleep at the end of the day, or in this case, settle happily into someone else's care for a few solid hours. 

“Feeling better?” Hermione asked. Harry met her gaze, noting the sincerity and the amusement both, and then nodded. 

“She has some temper,” he confided. “I wasn’t sure we were going to make it, honestly. She refused to let me touch her for nearly an hour. Kept bloody apparating and terrifying herself whenever I got close. It’s a damn good thing I have those wards around the house, or she might have ended up Merlin knows where.” 

“Poor thing,” said Hermione, looking concerned. “Is that common? Accidental Apparition as a form of early magic?” 

Harry shrugged. “I think I did it once. Ended up on top of a building when Dudley and his gang were chasing me. Point is, though, I did it when I was scared. In danger. What if—” 

“NO,” said Hermione at once. Her voice was firm. “That girl is not at all scared of you, and you are no threat to her. Accidental magic doesn’t just happen when we’re in danger, Harry. It happens any time we can’t channel our strong emotions. It’s more common in children because their magic is trying to protect them, but it can’t tell the difference between a temper tantrum and a real threat, or even a child’s desires and needs. When I was a little girl, the neighborhood cats used to find their way into my bedroom at night. Through locked windows and doors and solid walls. My parents didn’t think I was ready for the responsibility of a pet, and I thought it was terribly unfair that I couldn’t have one. My magic used to conjure the poor things in the dead of night while I was sleeping. It kept on until half way through first year. There was a reason I knew Millicent Bulstrode had a cat.” Hermione got a sad little look in her eye and Harry wondered whether she was thinking about Crookshanks. The giant ginger cat had died peacefully in Australia just a month before Harry had retrieved Helen and Frank. Hermione had seemed devastated when her parents had told her. 

“Thanks.” Harry smiled at her, hoping that the look would pull her out of her thoughts. It worked, and she returned the expression, linking her fingers through his and giving his hand a squeeze. 

“So, now that we’ve thoroughly missed our dinner reservations, where will we go?” 

Harry laughed and leaned down to kiss her cheek, and then her mouth. 

“We’re war heroes,” he said, his lips brushing over hers as he spoke. “If they haven’t kept our table open, I’ll eat my shirt.”

  
  
  
  
  


As it turned out, the upscale Wizarding establishment Harry had planned to take Hermione to  _ had _ kept a table open for them, and as he and Hermione finished off the delicate looking crème brûlées they had ordered, they sighed in satisfaction. 

“Circe, that was good,” Hermione moaned, her pink tongue darting out to catch the last bit of cream on her lips. Harry followed the path of it before flicking his gaze back up to hers. 

“Ron knows good food when he tastes it,” he said. 

“Was this place on his recommendation?” Hermione seemed surprised, and Harry nodded. 

“He’s branched out a bit with the dates. The girl he’s with now seems to have expensive taste.”

“Dahlia?” Hermione asked, curious. 

Harry shook his head. 

“I can’t remember her name, but it’s not the woman from my party. This one’s shorter. Little bit more round. A blonde.” 

“Our age?” 

Harry shrugged. Quite honestly, he couldn’t keep track of the women who came in and out of Ron’s life anymore. He had tried, but sometimes it seemed as if there were more than one at a time, and Harry wasn’t sure he wanted to know if that were the case. He didn’t mind if his friend wanted to play the field, but he didn’t want to know anything incriminating that Mrs Weasley might drag out of him later. 

“I think so? She looks maybe a bit younger, but I don’t recognize her. I think she has an accent.” 

“Probably one of the Veela cousins,”said Hermione, rolling her eyes. “I thought Dahlia was nice. It’s a pity he doesn’t seem to want to settle.” 

“Well, he’s young.” Harry said without thinking. 

“So are we.” Hermione’s voice was mild but her words hit him like a ton of bricks. 

“We are. Yeah. But… I mean, I’m not interested in playing around.” 

Hermione gave arched a brow in apparent amusement. 

“Well, that’s good to know.” 

Harry felt his cheeks grow hot beneath his beard. 

“I just mean that I’m serious about you. About us. I love you.” 

Her expression softened, and Harry’s heart began to beat wildly within his chest. 

“I love you too,” she said, and then reached across the table to take his hand in hers. Her skin was warm and soft, and a pleasant electric current snapped from her fingers to his as they twined together until their palms were flush. His heart started beating faster again, and he was on the verge of some new, important thought… and then she spoke again. 

“I have the Pensieve memories for you, by the way,” she said. “God, Harry, you should have seen Skeeter's face. She was livid.” 

Harry grinned. Hermione had told him every detail of the encounter, and still he couldn’t quite picture the scene as well as he wanted to. It was pity he hadn’t been able to make it. 

“I’m borrowing a Pensieve from someone at work on Monday. I can hardly wait.” 

“Of course,” Hermione continued, “there’s been some push back from a couple of the journalists, but so far things are looking up.” 

“Have you found an editor yet?” 

Hermione frowned and shook her head. 

“No one who meets my requirements.”

“Which are exacting, of course.” 

“Of course,” Hermione agreed. “I don’t want another Barnabas Cuffe running the  _ Prophet _ into the muck again. And I’m going to have to replace the lead political writer. She’s frightfully small minded.” 

“Whatever you think is best,” Harry agreed. “It’s your newspaper.” 

Hermione gave him a look. 

“Only because you’re a stubborn arse,” she reminded him. 

He laughed. It was true enough. Initially, when Hermione had approached him with the idea of buying the paper and silencing Skeeter, she had wanted the thing in his name. He had argued that he wouldn’t have the time or the inclination to run a newspaper, and that if he were to buy it, he wouldn’t want to destroy it completely. She had agreed, and he had been able to talk her into letting him put her name on the deed, so long as all of the profits went into his vault at Gringotts. Of course, Hermione didn’t know that he had purchased a second vault for the purpose, and added her as a co-owner with full access to its contents. 

“I just want it to be an honest, successful business for you,” Hermione continued. “I think I’d pull my hair out if I had to oversee the day to day long term. Besides. I have plans at the ministry.” 

“So I’ve heard,” Harry teased. “Shall I start calling you Minister Granger now, just so you’re used to it before they elect you next year?” 

“Oh shut up,” said Hermione, but he could tell that the joke had pleased her. 

He squeezed her hand again and released it as the waiter came by the table to check if they needed anything else. After Harry had waved the man off with a ‘thank you, no’, he turned back to face her. 

“Any other plans coming up?” he asked. “Aside from squaring away the paper and conquering the Ministry?” 

Hermione thought for a moment, taking a sip out of her half empty wine glass and setting it back down between them. 

“Actually, I’m hunting for a flat tomorrow.”

“A flat?” asked Harry, surprised. 

Hermione nodded and then took another sip of wine before speaking. 

“I think it’s time,” she said at last.

“What do your parents think?” Harry leaned toward her over the table, resting his elbows on the fine linen tablecloth. 

“It was actually their suggestion,” Hermione said after a long pause. 

“What?”

“Don’t look so distressed, Harry,” said Hermione, looking more concerned over his reaction than the fact that her parents seemed to want her out of the house. 

“Did something happen?” Harry asked. 

Hermione shook her head. 

“No.” Her voice was firm. “Nothing happened. But I’m a grown woman, and in the Muggle world… well, it’s not so conservative as the Wizarding one, as you know. My parents thought I might like to have my own space. And if I’m honest, I think they got used to having theirs when they were in Australia.”

“So, they’re just going to kick you out and—”

“They’re not kicking me out, Harry.” Hermione sounded a touch exasperated now. “They told me I’m welcome to stay, but that they would understand if I want to spread my wings a bit. They even offered to pay my rent if I want them to. They’re not trying to get rid of me, they’re just… they don’t want me to feel guilty anymore. About Australia. I think they just want us to be normal again. And I’m their grown daughter who they think should have a life outside of their home. It’s their way of caring for me, Harry.” 

It didn’t make sense to him, but then again, Harry had never had a happy Muggle home life. He’d never had parents who viewed am an adult. And his own daughter was barely two. He couldn’t imagine wanting her to leave his home ever. 

“Oh,” he said at last. “Okay.” And the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Hermione moving out of her parents home might not be a tragedy after all. If Hermione had a flat of her own, it would mean that he wouldn’t have to worry about how close he sat to her on the sofa, or whether her parents were going to come looking for them in her bedroom while he tore their daughters top off. 

His heart began to race curiously again, and his fantasies grew more detailed until at last he was picturing her in bed beside him, her smile radiant as she woke for the day in his bed and in his arms. 

“Move in with me!” The words spilled out of his mouth, louder than he had expected, startling both he and Hermione, whose eyes widened as the words seemed to register. 

“What?” 

“Move in with me,” he repeated, his voice more firm now. The sentence sounded good on his lips. The beating of his heart had slowed in reaction, and he felt a sense of rightness that warmed him from the chest outward. 

“Move in with you?”

“Yes,” he said simply. 

“Harry—” she said his name slowly, as if she thought he might misunderstand her. “We can’t just move in together. We’ve barely been properly dating for a month.” 

Harry shook his head in disagreement. “We first kissed last Halloween. It’s been nearly ten months.” 

“After which you decided we shouldn’t become involved,” Hermione reminded him.

“Christmas Eve, then,” said Harry. “Eight months.” 

“We were apart for most of that.” 

“And before then, we lived alone in a tent.” It was Harry’s turn to remind Hermione of the facts. “And before that, we were best friends for six years. You know me, Hermione. We know each other. We  _ love _ each other. And I can’t imagine a time I’ll ever want to be apart from you. I want you to move in with me.”

He could see the hope shining in Hermione’s face, but she still seemed sceptical. 

“You have a daughter, Harry,” she said softly. “We can’t just impulsively decide that we’re going to—” 

“I know I have a daughter. I also know she loves you. More than she loves me, if tonight was any indication.” They both laughed, and Harry continued. “And no matter what happens in the future, you will always be a part of her life. You’re my best friend, and her godmother. Nothing will ever change that.” 

Hermione let out a soft exhale, and Harry could tell that her mind was whirling around assessing every flaw in the plan and admiring every virtue. She thought at a hundred miles a minute, and as he watched her, she began to nibble on her lower lip, a sure sign that she had something else she thought needed saying. 

“What is it?” he asked.

She gave him a timid smile. 

“It’s just that… I’m concerned you haven’t thought this through. Not really. You’ve had so much on your mind, and… I just don’t want us to do something you’re not ready for.”

“Are  _ you _ not ready?” he asked, suddenly wondering if he had pushed too far, too soon. 

“It’s not that,” she said, taking his hand again. “I’m… I’m quite sure about you, Harry, and you know I love Delphi more than air… I just… this seems so impulsive, and I haven’t traditionally been a very impulsive person.” 

Harry chuckled. “Well, I have. And it’s usually worked out for me before now. In the end.” 

She stared him, unamused at the specter of his impalement at Malfoy Manor, but soon her stern look melted into a brilliant smile. He leaned in to kiss her cheek, brushing his lips from the soft skin there to her ear where he began to murmur. 

“I love you. Please move in with me.” 

Her answer wasn’t immediate, and so he added, “I’ve been wanting a new house anyway. You can pick it out, and we can settle somewhere with—”

“Okay,” she said, cutting him off with a laugh. 

“Yeah?” asked Harry, excitement welling up in him. 

“Yes,” Hermione assured. “I’ll move in with you.” She smiled and then added, “But really, there’s no need to buy a new house.” 

Harry only grinned. 

  
  
  


Number twelve, Grimmauld Place

They left the restaurant hand in hand, both intent on continuing the evening for a bit longer. Neither was sure how they ended up back at number twelve, but as they stumbled through the entryway and up the stairs to a familiar room with a large, inviting looking bed, Hermione felt absolutely giddy. They had only been able to make love a handful of times since the first, and now, knowing Delphi was well cared for and unable to interrupt them, and that no nosy parents were going to peek into the room to ‘see if anyone needed a cuppa,’ Hermione was intent on exploring the act further. 

“Harry,” she said, when he released her hand and took a small, respectful step away from her. “Are you going to kiss me or not?” The question seemed to be all the invitation he needed, because he sprang forward again at once, pulling her into his embrace and running his hands down her back, across the silken fabric of her blouse, and over her arse. 

She moaned and pressed against him, loving the feel of his hard chest against her breasts. She felt her nipples begin to pebble at the heat and the delicious way his fingers were toying with the hem of her skirt on her upper thigh now. Had his hands always been so hot? His fingers were like brands as they traced up the back of her thigh, skating over bare skin until he was cupping her round bottom in his hands and pulling her up against him. She could feel his solid arousal between them, pressing against her belly as he let out a long, slow breath. 

“Merlin, you’re fucking incredible, Hermione.” And she didn’t know why, but the dirty word on his tongue excited her further, his raspy voice increasing her need and making frantic to feel flesh against flesh. 

“Get on with it, Harry,” she demanded, wrapping a leg around his hip and pulling herself up, arms around his neck, so that she could kiss him. Her tongue swept through his mouth, over his straight white teeth, and then back as she felt her pulse quicken and the scrap of lace between her thighs grow damp. 

As it happened, Harry Potter was an exceptionally obedient student when the subject matter interested him, and so he did as he was told, pausing only to slip her blouse off and pull her panties down over her ankles and high heeled shoes. Soon, her bra had joined the little puddle of clothes at their feet, and he was lifting her back up to wrap her thighs around his hips, locking her ankles behind him. Somehow, in the tangle of limbs and clothing, his denim jeans had come undone and been lost, and his too tight shirt had lost several buttons and was hanging open, framing his impressively chiseled torso. 

Hermione felt something cold press against her bare back and turned just long enough to realize that Harry had pushed her up against the large bedroom window. Soon, the glass had warmed to her skin, and the only thing to distract her was his mouth on her breasts and his hot hands on her thighs, holding her up as if she weighed nothing. 

“Harry.” She breathed his name like it was a benediction, and his suckling grew more insistent at the sound, until she was crying out and he was settling her feet back on the ground as he descended to his knees. 

His beard tickled on the way down, over her belly and to her inner thigh as his head disappeared beneath his pleated skirt. 

“Fuck.” 

His mouth was a furnace of sensation that sent her pleasure receptors cartwheeling into abandon, and her legs quivering with the effort of keeping her upright. His tongue stroked her, toying with her clit for a moment before dipping into her wet tightness and back up. He continued with that one movement for Circe only knew how long, and when she didn’t think she’d be able to stay standing for a moment longer, when her thighs were trembling with effort and need, he began to suck at the hard, sensitized nub which was the apex of her pleasure. 

She came hard, the world spinning out of control around her as her heart tried to beat out of her chest, and she saw stars reeling in the sky. When she was once again aware enough to think, to remember that she was a woman and not just endless pleasure, she was surprised to find that she was still standing. Harry’s hands were on her hips, keeping her upright, the muscles in his arms hard as rocks with the effort. She shifted her weight back onto her own two feet and felt his grip slacked. He was kissing the inside of her thigh now, downward to her knee. When his head emerged from beneath her skirt, he was grinning, and she felt a fierce pride that she had made him so happy. 

Quickly, he moved back up, standing and kissing her deeply. She could taste herself on his tongue, feel her dampness in his beard. He smelled of sex, and of her, and she wanted more. 

“Do you want me inside you, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice a rasping echo in her ears. She nodded and felt his hands on her, turning her around so that her breasts were pressed flush against the window. Her face burned with embarrassment for a moment, with the worry of being seen, but then she dismissed the idea in a heartbeat. She didn’t give a damn who saw them, she wanted him inside of her, wanted to feel luxurious and loved and fucked into next week all at once. 

“Please,” she said, tilting her hips toward him and spreading her legs to allow him entry. 

“Please what, darling?” His fingers were stroking the seam of her slit and his breath was hot on her back. 

“Please fuck me, Harry.”

His answer was to slide into her, his hot length pressing into her and making her moan and it showed her just how tight she really was. 

“Bloody hell,” he murmured behind her. “You feel so goddamn good.” 

He silently agreed and then pressed back against him, making him buck his hips forward and causing him to pierce her more deeply. 

Oh God. She had never felt so full in her life, and the entire region between her thighs was still sensitive from the shattering climax Harry had brought her to with his mouth only minutes before. As he began to move, she felt the familiar tension building once more, peaking when he was fully seated inside of her and she felt a tiny ache deep inside. If only this position could put pressure on her—

“Shit!” she cried as Harry’s finger reached around and began to toy with her sensitive nub. It took only a minute or so more before she was flying into a thousand tiny pieces once more. Her legs buckled, and Harry was forced to move his hand from between her thighs and wrap his arm around her waist to keep her upright. And all the while, he continued to plunge into her, his cock rock solid until at last he groaned into her hair and came. She could feel his length pulsing inside of her as he finished, and pressed her cheek to cold windowpane, her eyes fluttering shut. 

Later, after they had managed to drag themselves to the bed, Hermione pressed that same cheek to his chest. As they drifted off to sleep, she could feel his heart beating against her. 

  
  



	32. Chapter 32

4 Cerridwen Court, Godric’s Hollow

27 August 1999

The house was entirely too large. As Hermione surveyed the structure from the outside, she could draw only one conclusion. This was not, as the Wizarding estate agent had said, ‘a lovely cottage’—it was a bloody manor house.

“You can’t be serious,” she said, gaze still riveted on the house with its wide gables, large windows, and— “Good God. Harry, is that a turret?” 

“Awesome, isn’t it?” Harry, the poor daft man, looked completely elated at the sight of the place. A glance at the estate agent, an older woman with steel grey hair that was cut bluntly at her chin, told Hermione that she would do nothing to dissuade Harry’s apparent approval of the place. 

The house itself was situated on the outskirts of Godric’s Hollow, down a wide lane and acres from its nearest neighbor. Hermione had been surprised that Harry had had any interest in Godric’s Hollow at all, considering the way their last visit had ended, but had agreed to see the house all the same. Now, she was beginning to regret the decision. 

“It’s too big,” said Hermione. “You can barely keep your townhouse clean, how do you expect we’ll manage a house  _ that _ size? It must have at least a dozen bedrooms. 

“There are actually only six,” the estate agent cut in, looking worried now. “Will that be a problem?” 

“No, Magda,” said Harry. “Not at all. Can we go inside?” 

“Harry, you can’t honestly be considering this monstrosity.” 

“I go in,” came a little voice from Hermione’s left. She looked down to see Delphi pointing in the direction of the large house. “I go in. Go potty.” 

Hermione sighed but scooped the girl up all the same. 

“Very well, lead the way, Magda.” 

Once Delphi had taken care of her business and darted back into the wide, empty living room, Hermione took a moment to inspect the place. 

While on the outside, the house might look like a victorian manor home, on the inside it felt clean, modern, and inviting, with just a touch of the original pieces that gave the place an antiquated charm. Even Hermione had to admit there was some appeal to the place. 

Soon, Harry and Magda rejoined them, and Hermione was dragged along on a tour of house. She had, of course, been right. The whole house was massive, and keeping the place clean would take help, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life scrubbing floors and wiping down miles of baseboard. She wondered briefly whether any of the free elves she had worked with at the Department of the House Elf Liaison would let her pay them a real wage in exchange for their help around the the house, before dismissing the thought completely. They weren’t going to buy this place. It was lovely, but it was much too large, and probably  _ way _ beyond her budget. She had a tidy little inheritance from her grandparents which she had been keeping for her first home purchase, but even that generous sum probably wouldn’t cover her half of the cost. 

Still, she could not help but be charmed by the place. 

The first floor was wide and spacious, with a chef's kitchen, a massive dining room, two seperate living areas (she thought one could be accurately termed a parlor), a home office with a lovely window seat, and a generously sized bedroom with its own full bath and a walk in closet. This bedroom, Magda had assured them, was meant to be a spare, and was  _ not _ the master suite. There had even been a separate pantry, a mudroom, and a laundry room. 

Upstairs, there had been yet another living space, four more bedrooms ( _ “One for Delphi, an office for each of us, and a bonus room!”  _ Harry had remarked enthusiastically), and two large bathrooms. Hermione had just been about to remark on the lack of a proper master suite when Magda had pointed out a set of stairs on the far side of the upstairs living space. They followed the older woman to the third floor, which she said had originally been the attic but had been converted quite expertly. 

“Merlin, it’s huge,” said Harry when they finally caught sight of the place. And it really was. Hermione was confident she would have been able to fit the entirety of the Gryffindor girls dormitory into the wide open space, with its vaulted ceiling and gorgeous windows. On one side of the room there was a dais she knew was meant to house a bed, and the place where she stood now was a private sitting room. Sliding doors on the opposite wall stood open, and beyond them Hermione could see a massive bathroom and a clawfoot tub she could probably spend hours in. 

“All of the usual household charms have been set,” said Magda as Harry and Hermione continued to look around the room in amazement and Delphi ran in circles around them, singing something unintelligible. “But things have been done the Muggle way as well. Should the charms fail, there is ample insulation, an air conditioning unit, and a great many other amenities on offer.” 

Finally, the estate agent left them to their thoughts, and once she had gone, Harry and Hermione turned to each other. 

“We’re not buying this house.” 

“We’re definitely getting this house.” 

They spoke in unison, and then stared in shock at one another. 

“What do you mean we’re not buying it? It’s perfect.”

“Harry, it’s got to be too much. We can’t afford it!” 

He arched a brow in her direction. 

“Fine.  _ I _ can’t afford it. I wouldn’t be able to cover my half.” 

“Your half?” asked Harry, and he looked genuinely confused. 

“Of the mortgage,” Hermione clarified.

“What are you talking about?”

Hermione sighed. 

“If we’re buying this house,” she said, “I’ll owe half of the money due each month. The payment is bound to be too large. 

“Why would we pay monthly?” Harry asked. “I was going to just pay in Galleons. Today, if I can.” 

“Pay in— Harry, normal people don’t just pay for their houses in Galleons! Godric’s Hollow may have a high Wizarding population, but it’s a Muggle town all the same. You’ll have to pay taxes and insurance and…”

“The property is wizard owned,” Harry interrupted. “Gringotts holds the title, and I’m fairly certain this place is unplottable, which means it wouldn’t be on any English record.”

“But Godric's Hollow is integrated,” Hermione protested. 

“The village itself, yeah,” agreed Harry, “but from what Magda was telling me, the properties on the outskirts are largely inhabited by wizards and witches. Cerridwen Court is a Wizarding neighborhood. With, you know, six houses or so.” 

Hermione snorted. “With the amount of land this bloody house is on, they wouldn’t be able to fit any more.” 

“Anyway,” shrugged Harry, as Delphi began to tug at his hand. “Point being, I can afford the place. You don’t have to worry about paying anything.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes in Harry’s direction. 

“I’m not going to be your kept woman, Harry Potter,” she hissed, feeling offended at the suggestion. 

“Be my—Christ, no. NO. Is that what you think?”

“What else am I supposed to think?” she asked. 

Delphi was whining now and tugging at Hermione’s hand as well as Harry’s. 

“I hungry,” she said. “Eat now. Cereal. I want cereal.” 

“Hang on, Del,” Harry said, looking irritated now. And then to Hermione he said, “How could you think that? I  _ love _ you! I don’t want some kept woman, I want a partner!” 

“But your partner can’t contribute financially, is that it?” Hermione pressed. 

“No,” said Harry, and he looked positively outraged now. “But when I invite a woman to move in with me, I don’t expect her to foot the bill. I’m not asking you to be my roommate, Hermione.”

“Just your live in lover?” 

Harry flushed, and Delphi’s pleas reached an even louder decibel. 

“Look,” he said, “when I asked you to move in with me, I had a house already. If you were to move into Grimmauld Place you wouldn’t expect to pay rent or give me half the value of the house, because I had the house already and paid nothing to live there.” 

“But we’re not moving into Grimmauld Place,” Hermione began to protest. 

Harry cut her off. 

“And just because I want a different house to raise my daughter in doesn’t mean you should have to pay half the cost. I want this place for Delphi, because I can picture her here. I can see her growing up in Godric’s Hollow the way I never did. You shouldn’t have to foot the bill for that.” 

Hermione paused. The feminist in her (which, admittedly was most of her) continued to rage, but the rest of her, the part that knew Harry oh so well and understood the things he wanted in life, knew that what he was saying was not wrong. 

“So you want the place in just your name,” she said, “because you want to raise Delphi here. You want this to be your forever home, even if we—” she struggled to find the words—“don’t work out.” 

Harry winced. 

“No,” he said. “I’d be perfectly happy to have your name on the deed… but… yeah. Even if this were to go south—which I do NOT anticipate—I’d want to be here with her.” 

The thought was not romantic, and it burst the happy little bubble she had been living in until now. The reality of their situation was stark and somewhat frightening… but in the end, all she really wanted was to be with Harry. Letting him pay for this house out of his considerable fortune would be no different than moving into the home he had inherited from Sirius—he was right about that—but it also meant that she would be living in  _ his _ space.  _ His _ home. And the arrangement might not be permanent. Could she be okay with that? She was certain her parents main concern would be her future security, and by investing nothing in the house, she was risking nothing. Was that a good thing? Perhaps financially, in the case of their relationships demise. But here… now…it felt somewhat unsatisfying. 

“Alright,” she said at last. “You buy the house.” 

Harry frowned at the tone of her voice, and Delphi looked up at the both of them, having finally fallen silent. 

“Hermione—”

“If this is what you want,” she said, “I shouldn’t stand in your way.” 

“You’re what I want,” said Harry, voice soft. “You and Delphi. If this house is some sort of deal breaker, I don’t want it.” 

Hermione’s heart warmed at his words, and she felt the barrier which she hadn’t realized had erected itself between them, melt away. 

“You’ve got me,” she said, taking his hand and leaning in to kiss his bearded cheek. “And I do like the manor.” 

Harry gave her a happy, chiding sort of look. 

“It’s  _ not  _ a manor,” he corrected. 

Hermione just shrugged and leaned down to lift Delphi into her arms. 

“Would you like to go pick out the biggest room for your own, darling?” she asked the girl. 

“No,” Delphi answered. “Want cereal.” 

Harry laughed and followed them down the stairs to the first floor where Magda stood waiting. 

“Any thoughts, Mr Potter?” the woman asked. 

Harry looked to Hermione once more for confirmation, and when she nodded he grinned. 

“We’ll take it,” said Harry. 

“Oh, marvelous!” Magda exclaimed. “I’m sure you’ll do so well here. And what a lovely place for your little girl to grow up.” The older woman caught Hermione’s eye and smiled broadly. “I must say, dear, she looks very much like you. Those curls, and that heartshaped little face. Coloring belongs to Daddy though, doesn’t it?” 

Hermione could feel the tension beginning to radiate off of Harry immediately, and so she simply answered “Yes” and then began to ask questions about the house. 

  
  
  
  


Granger Residence 

19 September 1999

Birthdays in Hermione’s world, Harry had learned, were a thing of tradition. While his own celebrations had run the gamut between non-existent, and over the top, Hermione’s had always been what she had termed “comfortable.” And now, as Harry sat at her family’s dinner table with a glass of red wine and a slice of Hermione’s favorite spice cake on a plate in front of him, he finally understood what birthdays were meant to be like. Her mother had made the cake herself, and the gifts that Helen and Frank had given to their daughter, while not plentiful, had been thoughtful and had made Hermione smile. A simple but stunning set of diamond earrings, a set of Muggle law books she had been coveting, and a framed photograph of the three of them they said was for her to take with her to her new home. 

For Harry’s part, he had thought long and hard about what he might give Hermione for her twentieth birthday. In the past, he had always given her books, and while he knew she enjoyed them, (and he had set up an account for her at Flourish and Blotts that drew from his personal vault) they had seemed a little lacking now that she was more than just a friend. Still, he knew her, and he knew that books were her first love, and so he had compromised. 

“It’s not a telescope, is it?” Frank teased as Hermione began to open the long, cylindrical package. 

“No sir,” Harry answered, and Helen tittered as she took a sip of her wine. 

“How many times do we have to ask you to call us by our names, Harry?”

He flushed. A million more, if he had his way. It wasn’t that he didn't like the Grangers—he liked them a great deal—but he was shagging their daughter, and he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to address them as Helen and Frank while he was simultaneously picturing their only child naked. 

Finally, Hermione was opening the tube she had uncovered, and drawing out a large, rolled paper. 

“Harry, what is this?” she asked, looking curious. 

“Looks like blueprints,” Frank noted astutely. 

“Here, let me help.” Helen took hold of the paper and began to unfurl it as Hermione pushed aside her dessert. 

“It is a blueprint,” said Helen, “Very good, Frank. Did Harry tell you?”

“Are you questioning my intelligence, young lady?” Her husband gave her a mock stern look, and Helen laughed. 

Harry watched as Hermione leaned over the drawings, her curious gaze moving over the surface until at last she seemed to comprehend what she was seeing. 

“Harry, is that a staircase?” 

“In a secret passage, yes,” he answered. 

“Leading to the study?” 

Harry shook his head, grinning. 

“To the library,” he corrected. 

“The—are you serious?” Her eyes were shining with excitement, and Harry nodded. 

Hermione squealed and launched herself sideways to wrap her arms around him in a powerful hug, then released him to pore over the blueprints once more. 

“Are these expansion charms?” 

“Yes. I hired an arithmancer, so they could be—”

“Built into the wards. Brilliant.”

Pleased but not at all surprised that Hermione had understood so quickly, Harry looked up to explain to her parents, only to see them exchanging a worried look. His own expression faltering slightly, he looked back down and swallowed. Had he done something wrong? 

“More cake. Please!” Down the table, Delphi had finished her slice of cake and was licking frosting off of her fingers. Harry, who was in no mood for an argument with his two year old, slid the remains of his cake over to her, and she happily began to stab at the small piece with her fork. 

Hermione looked up at last, the excitement she felt still evident in her wide smile. 

“It’s amazing Harry. It’s going to be so wonderful!” 

“What is?” asked Helen, and Hermione didn’t seem to notice the little stiffness in her voice 

“Harry’s building me a library in the new house! He’s expanding the old study magically, building shelves, adding a second story, and then adding a staircase that connects it all to the master suite.” She laughed. “It’s perfect!” 

“Dear me,” said Frank mildly. “That sounds like quite a project.”

Harry blushed but forced a smile. “It’s not too difficult,” he said. “Most of it can be done with magic.” 

“I see,” said Helen. It was then that Hermione seemed to notice that something was going on. 

“Something wrong?” she asked, her tone light. 

“As a matter of—” began Frank, but his wife interrupted. 

“No,” she said, voice firm as she gave her husband another look. “Everything is wonderful.” 

“Mum—” 

“Really, Hermione. It sounds like something you’d very much enjoy.”

An awkward silence descended after that, and Harry had the distinct impression that all was  _ not _ wonderful. Hermione stowed away the blueprints after giving him a kiss, and they all finished their desserts in silence, with the exception of Delphi, who began chattering and humming to herself. When they were done, Helen stood, gathering everyone's plates and motioning to Hermione. 

“Help me in the kitchen, will you, dear? I can’t manage the wine glasses and the plates.” 

Hermione stood at once, her brows furrowing for a moment in a sure sign that she was feeling apprehensive, before she collected the glasses and followed her mother into the kitchen. 

Harry was left with Frank and Delphi for company. Delphi was busy singing a song about garden gnomes that Andromeda had taught her, and Frank sat reclined in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach. 

“So, Harry,” said the man, “a library.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“In your house.” 

Harry tried to keep his expression neutral. 

“Our house, Mr Granger.” 

Frank made a noise and frowned. 

“Which you’re paying for and will own by yourself,” he said. 

Harry gulped. 

“I didn’t think it was fair Hermione should have to pay. When she agreed to move in with me, I already had a house I’d inherited. Moving elsewhere was something  _ I _ wanted, not her.” 

“Hmm.” Frank didn’t sound impressed. “That’s considerate of you.” 

Harry smiled awkwardly and looked back to Delphi, hoping fruitlessly that she would choose that moment to need something. Unfortunately for him, she was perfectly content. 

“Kind of an odd gift though, isn’t it?” Frank continued at last. “A little Disney?” 

Harry shrugged, not understanding the reference. “I don’t think so, sir.” 

“Giving her a library in a house that doesn’t belong to her? It’s not really a gift, is it? More a loan.” 

Harry felt offended for the first time that evening. “I’m certainly not building it for myself, sir,” he said, sounding more sharp than he had planned. 

Frank arched a brow. 

“Forgive me, I’m not familiar with what magic is capable of. Will she be able to take it with her when she buys a house of her own?” 

Harry bristled. 

“I’m sorry, is there a problem here?” 

Frank’s tone stayed even when he answered. “Not if you give me a straight answer.”

“No,” Harry said through gritted teeth. “She couldn’t take the library with her. Or the spiral staircase. They’ll be part of the house.” 

“Which belongs to you.” 

“It will be  _ ours _ ,” Harry said again.

Frank sighed. 

“Let me be clear, Harry. I’m father to an exceptional daughter.” He glanced in Delphi’s direction and smiled softly. “One day, not to far from now, you’ll understand what that’s like.” His expression hardened again as he turned his steely gaze on Harry. “Hermione is going places, son. She’s smarter than Helen and I combined, and has plans for her life that don’t include being some rich wizard’s paramour.” 

“Hermione is not my—I would  _ never  _ stand in her way!”

“Good,” Frank said, his shoulder seeming to relax slightly. “That’s good. Because a young lady like her… Well, she needs more than just someone to shag—” Harry blushed at the man’s words. “She needs a partner. Someone who won’t just make decisions without her, or expect her to bend to their will. She needs someone who wants the same things out of life, and is committed to—”

“I AM COMMITTED!” Harry shouted, and then winced. At the table, Delphi stopped her singing and looked up at him in concern. In the other room, Harry heard Hermione say something, and her mother cut in. He took a deep breath. 

“I  _ am _ committed. To her. To the things she wants in life. She’s going to be Minister for Magic one day, Mr Granger, and I’m going to be there, cheering for her when they swear her in. I’m going to keep her safe so that she can accomplish everything she wants to accomplish in life. I  _ love _ her.” 

Frank gave Harry a hard look. 

“So you’re planning to marry her.” 

The statement took Harry by surprise. Honestly, he hadn’t given much thought to marriage. He knew that he loved Hermione, that he wanted to be with her always and raise his daughter with her, and share a life together… but marriage? A ring and a ceremony and sharing a last name? Harry was shocked by how right the thought felt. Not for today, or tomorrow… but someday. 

“Yeah, I am.”

Those three simple words seemed to be all the assurance Frank was looking for, because he relaxed completely after Harry spoke. 

“Well, that’s all squared then. Did you want another slice of cake?” 

Later, after a slightly awkward game of charades and Delphi passing out on the couch, the evening ended, and Harry found himself on the Granger’s front porch, a sleeping toddler resting over his shoulder, and Hermione looking up at him anxiously. 

“I’m sorry about earlier. I don’t know why Mum and Dad were being so odd.” 

“It was fine, really,” said Harry. “I think your dad just wanted to make sure I was being…” He searched for a word. “Respectful.” 

“Oh, God.” Hermione covered her eyes with her hands and blushed. “He didn’t.” 

Harry laughed, finding the scene at least a little amusing in retrospect. 

“He did.”

“I’m going to kill him.” 

“What about your mum? Were you really just helping with the dishes?” he asked. 

Hermione met his gaze and shook her head. “She was being nosy.” 

“Well,” said Harry, “I suppose that’s something parents do. Make sure their children are alright.” 

“You would know.” Hermione reached out to brush the curls from across Delphi’s cheek. Harry watched the way her annoyed embarrassment melted into tenderness, and his heart burned in his chest.

He leaned forward without thought, and his lips captured hers. Hermione’s eyes widened for a moment, and then fluttered shut as she melted into his kiss, and he crowed inwardly at being here, now, with her responding so sweetly to him. He used his one free hand to cup her cheek and then wrap around to twine in her hair. 

They kissed until Delphi stirred and Harry was forced to withdraw, his hand trembling with the effort of leaving her. 

“Six more days,” she said, smiling. “Then, I’m afraid, these porch scenes will be a thing of the past.” 

“Sad?” asked Harry. 

“Not even a little.” 

“Daddy?” Harry glanced down at Delphi. Her wide grey eyes were opened but bleary, and she seemed confused. 

“Shh, I’ve got you,” Harry assured her, kissing her forehead as her thick, dark lashes fluttered down to rest on her cheeks once more. 

“You should go,” Hermione told him. “Get her to bed. I’ll stop by the DMLE tomorrow at lunch, and we can talk more then.”

“Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “I love you.” 

Her smile was radiant. 

“I love you too, Harry.” 

He disapparated soundlessly, and as he climbed the steps of number twelve toward Delphi’s room, he looked forward to Saturday, when he’d be settling his daughter into her new nursery and then heading upstairs with Hermione, where they could continue what they had begun on her parents porch and not have to worry about being parted again. 

  
  



	33. Chapter 33

4 Cerridwen Court, Godric’s Hollow

2 October 1999

The house was abuzz with conversation and laughter, and as Harry came up into the kitchen from the cellar, he grinned at the sight that awaited him. 

“There he is!” called George. “Find what you were looking for?” 

Harry held up twin bottles of firewhisky, and everyone in the large kitchen and adjoining family room—with the exceptions of Delphi, Teddy, and Victoire—cheered. 

The whole Weasley clan and their assorted friends had gathered at Harry and Hermione’s home for a house-warming party. All of the Weasley brothers with their significant others, Arthur and Molly, Ginny with Theodore Nott, and several of Fleur’s veela cousins, one of which was clinging to Ron’s arm. Andromeda had come as well, as had Neville, Minerva McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and several Aurors that Harry had grown friendly with. Even Helen and Frank were in attendance, laughing in a corner as Arthur interrogated them about dental equipment. 

“Thank God you found them,” Hermione called. “I thought I’d lost my mind.” Harry handed her the liquor bottles, and Hermione set them beside the flaggons of butterbeer, pumpkin juice, and elf-wine that lined the counter. “You know Kingsley doesn’t like the sweet stuff.” 

“Nor do I,” said Andromeda, as she approached them from behind. Teddy and Delphi were trailing after her, intent on wrapping themselves around her legs and riding them. “I think a nice, tall glass of water will do me tonight, though.” 

“Of course.” Hermione conjured a glass and filled it at the refrigerator as Andromeda watched in apparent fascination. 

“Ted always wanted one of these fancy things,” she confided. “I never saw a use, with cooling charms.”

“We’re just used to them,” said Hermione. “I think it's a Muggleborn thing, wanting to cling to the trappings of our youth.” 

“Nothing wrong with that,” Andromeda assured her. “And I know plenty of purebloods who feel the same. My sisters, for example.” 

Harry froze, his smile still plastered on his face as his heart skipped a beat at the mention of the Black sisters. Somehow, he always managed to forget that Andromeda was one of them… that his daughter, with her glossy black curls and grey eyes, was the woman’s niece. 

“Perhaps it's just human nature, then,” Hermione mused, her hand slipping into Harry’s and giving it a short squeeze. 

A short, high burst of laughter from across the room caught their attention then. Harry looked up to see Ginny standing with her boyfriend, a drink in her hand. Her hair was windswept, and her makeup looked as if she’d slept in it. When she had first arrived, Harry had wondered whether she had been ill, but Theo had explained they had had a late night which had turned into a long morning. It had been far more information than Harry had needed. 

“Goodness,” said Andromeda. “Has she always been so…” her voice trailed off, and Hermione shook her head. 

“Well,” Andromeda continued. “It  _ is  _ a party.” And then she winked and lumbered away, each leg weighed down with a toddler as she walked. 

Harry and Hermione joined Neville and Ron in the corner with their dates. Harry had been surprised to see Neville with Luna on his arm when they had arrived but pleased all the same. They both deserved some measure of happiness, and he knew they were good people who would treat one another well. 

“Bonjour, Mr Potter,” said the veela girl on Ron’s arm. Her accent was even thicker than Fleur’s, and Harry had trouble understanding her at first. 

“Uh, hello. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.” 

Hermione curled her hand around his upper arm, and he felt her settle in beside him. 

“This is Aurelie,” Ron introduced, wrapping his own arm around the young woman’s waist. Her silvery hair brushed the top of his forearm. For the first time in ages, Harry noticed the scars there from their sojourn into the Department of Mysteries. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” Hermione said at his side, reaching out to shake the girl’s hand. 

Aurelie nodded and returned the gesture. “And you are?” 

“This is Hermione,” said Ron. 

“Hermione? Hermione Granger?” 

Hermione blushed and nodded. “Yes. You’ve heard of me?” 

“Oui!  _ Voyant Du Matin _ wrote an article about you shortly after your government overturned. I was most impressed when Fleur told me you were acquainted.” 

“Acquainted?” Ron scoffed, “They’re practically family. Hermione and Harry are unofficial Weasleys, you know.” 

“Je vois. She may have said so. I do not recall.” Aurelie tossed her hair, looking back up at Ron and giving him a private sort of smile. “But now, I am parched, Ronald. Will you show me to where I can quench this thirst?” 

Ron’s cheeks went pink at her request, and he looked up, meeting Harry’s gaze and arched eyebrows with a twinkle in his eyes and a shrug of his shoulders. 

“Of course,” he said and led her away. 

“Merlin,” said Neville, breaking the suddenly awkward silence. “I think she just asked him to help her christen your house.”

“If they screw in my bed,” said Hermione, “I’ll kill him.” 

The three Gryffindors laughed, and Harry put his arm around Hermione’s shoulder. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I put wards on the stairs so Delphi and her little minions can’t injure themselves going up. No one’s doing anything in any of our bedrooms.” 

“Didn’t I see a guest room on this level?” Neville teased. 

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione ordered. 

“I think it’s lovely that you keep a room on this level for your guests to use when the mood strikes them,” said Luna, her voice dreamy and her blond hair tucked into a messy braid over her shoulder. 

“Er…” Harry wasn’t quite sure how to respond. 

“Thanks, Luna,” said Hermione. “And I must say, you and Neville make a darling couple. I’m so glad you’ve decided to see one another.”

“Oh, we aren’t—” began Neville, flushing, but Luna cut in. 

“Neville and I enjoy one another’s bodies. It’s wonderful what two good friends can experience together when they explore their boundaries. Not that Neville has  _ too _ many.” 

“Luna!” 

“Merlin,” said Harry, struggling not to laugh as Neville grew bright red and covered his face with one hand. 

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, Neville. You’re quite fit, you know.” 

“Merlin's saggy—please Luna,  _ please _ stop.” 

“Luna,” Hermione interrupted, “have you seen the garden yet? I’m fairly certain there’s a dirigible plum plant, and I’ve been meaning to owl you about it.” Harry’s clever girlfriend took the blond Ravenclaw by the arm and guided her toward the glass doors which led to the back garden. He watched the two women go, and when they had disappeared, Neville let out a sigh. 

“She’s incorrigible,” he said, cheeks still bright red. 

“So you’re not… together?” Harry asked, curious. 

“No,” said Neville, voice firm. “Just friends.” 

“A little more than friends,” said Harry, amused. 

Neville shrugged. “I respect her. We like each other. But it’s not going anywhere. I’m… well, I’m emotionally unavailable. And she’s…” His voice trailed off. 

“Luna,” supplied Harry. 

“She is that.” 

They stood in silence for a few moments more before Ron returned, ears still pink and no veela girlfriend in sight. 

“Back so soon?” said Harry. “I don’t remember you being that quick in the showers.”

“Shut up, scarhead,” Ron shot back. “My blessed mother found us getting started in the loo. Aurelie’s gone.” 

“The loo?” asked Neville, sounding surprised. “You do know there’s a bedroom by the library, don’t you?” 

“No bed yet,” Harry contradicted. 

Ron smirked. “If you still need a bed, you’re doing it wrong, mate.” 

“Do you really want to hear about how Hermione and I—”

“Merlin, no.” 

Neville laughed at the exchange and Ron turned his attention to the only male in the group whose sexual exploits were unlikely to turn his stomach. 

“What about you, Neville? Are you and Luna…?” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

“Just friends,” Neville answered. 

“With benefits,” said Harry with a grin. 

Neville punched him in the shoulder. 

“Good on you, mate!” Ron said. “We’re too young for serious relationships—no offence Harry—better to play the field.” 

But at the way Neville seemed to stiffen and then glance toward the other side of the room where Ginny was currently nestled on Theo’s lap, Harry suspected that Neville was nowhere near ’the field.’ If he wasn’t mistaken, the man was still very much in love with the youngest Weasley sibling. 

“How’s the Herbology Mastery coming, Neville?” Harry asked. 

Neville relaxed visibly at the change of subject. “Good! I was working with adult Mandrakes the other day, and it went really well. I’m experimenting with them and Gillyweed. I have a theory that Mandrakes could be cultivated in water given the right circumstances, which would add an entirely new dimension to their magical properties and their use in potions! I was actually meaning to write Hermione about it, get her perspective.” 

Harry thought she would likely have a lot to say on the subject. She had been an incredibly talented potioneer in school, and he knew she liked to read  _ Ars Alchemia _ to keep current in the field.

As Ron asked a question of Neville, Harry’s gaze travelled to the door through which Hermione had disappeared with Luna. There was still no sign of her, but nearby, he noticed Delphi sitting on the couch beside Theo and Ginny. Ginny wasn’t paying her any mind, intent as she was on nibbling at her boyfriend’s ear. Theo, however, was smiling at the girl and waving his fingers. 

“I’ll be right back,” Harry said abruptly, not bothering to listen for his friends' responses before pushing past them and walking over to where Delphi sat 

“She bothering you two?” he asked as Delphi sprang up and began to bounce on the sofa cushion. 

“Not at all,” said Theo, his smile wide and cheeks flushed. Harry supposed that was unavoidable when one had a willing woman on their lap, showering them with attention. 

“Hello, Gin,” Harry said, somewhat awkwardly. 

Ginny looked up, her gaze unfocused for a moment before it narrowed onto Harry and she smiled. “Hullo,” she said. “I didn’t see you there.” 

Theo chuckled. “How could you have, you minx.” The fingers of one hand brushed over her bare upper arm as he smiled at her. 

She practically purred, and Harry felt incredibly uncomfortable. He tried to tell himself that no matter who was making the display, he would have been disconcerted, but a small part of him wondered whether his discomfort had something to do with the fact that it was  _ Ginny _ making a scene in the corner. Once, she’d been  _ his _ girlfriend, and it had been his neck that she had kissed… but never in public like this. 

And then, a little voice in his head reminded him that if he had never had a daughter—hell, if there had never been a bloody war in the first place—he might not have been forced to grow up so very fast, and it might have been  _ him  _ with a lap full of wanton woman in public, snogging wildly at every opportunity instead of toilet training a two-year-old and settling into a career. He wouldn’t trade it, of course, but he couldn’t help but wonder whether his discomfort stemmed not from any inherent inappropriateness in Ginny’s actions, or from his own inexperience… from some deficiency in him. 

“Come on, Delphi,” Harry said, forcing a smile at the couple and then scooping his daughter up off the couch. She laughed and tried to squirm away but he held her fast. “Glad you two could make it,” he said, nodding at Theo, and ignoring the fact that Ginny had returned to burying her face in the man’s shoulder. 

“Our pleasure,” Theo said, grinning, and then Harry turned his back on the pair of them and trying to shake off the sudden feeling of inadequacy that had pressed its way into his mind.

He made his way back toward the kitchen counters and Molly Weasley, who he saw standing beside it, holding a goblet of wine. 

“Molly,” he acknowledged. 

“Get an eye full over there, did you?” she asked, shooting one quick glare at the couple by the far wall. 

Harry laughed awkwardly and shrugged. “Would you keep an eye on Delphi for me for a minute? I’m going to go find Hermione. I think she’s in the garden with Luna, and she probably needs a rescue. 

Molly nodded, wrapping her soft arms around the little girl and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “With pleasure,” she said. 

Harry gave her a grateful smile and made his way toward the exit, shaking off the sight of Ginny and Theo snogging on his couch. It wasn’t his business anymore, and he had no need to feel so uncomfortable about it. 

  
  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


That night, long after the guests had gone home and the three residents of number four Cerridwen had gone to bed, Harry woke with a start. 

There was someone after him, someone who meant him harm. They wanted to kill him and to take Delphi and… God, they were going to hurt Hermione. 

“No!” he shouted, and the sound rent the night air like a slicing hex, startling him to full wakefulness as he sat bolt upright in bed, bent over and clutching the spot over his heart. 

“Delphi,” he breathed. 

“Its okay, Harry, it’s just a dream.” Her voice was soft, and her hand drew a soothing circle over his bare back. 

“Hermione?” He glanced to his right and saw her there. She sat beside him, legs crossed beneath her and silky nightgown a puddle around her waist. Her hair looked silver at the edges with the moonlight filtering in behind her, and her features were cast in shadow. “Did something happen?”

She paused before answering, her shoulders rising and falling just slightly with each breath before she finally nodded. 

“Delphi. Is she—” 

“Asleep in her room. I was just there, checking on her… I think I woke you when I climbed back onto the bed.” She sounded guilty, and Harry furrowed his brow. 

“What’s wrong? Is it your parents?” 

“No. Everyone is fine, Harry. I promise. We just… we got an owl while you were sleeping. It woke me screeching at the window.”

“Oh,” his shoulders relaxed at the news for a moment before he began to wonder why an owl would have her so worried. 

“Who was it?” he asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the back of one hand and then peering at her again. He tried to make out her expression but the shadows hid her face. 

“I don’t know,” she answered at last. “They didn’t sign their name.” 

Harry’s heart dropped to his gut. 

“Shit.” 

“Harry, they want more money.” 

“Lumos.” Light poured from the end of his wand where it sat on the nightstand, and Harry swung his legs from the bed. The hardwood floors were cold beneath his feet—the rugs they had ordered from some Muggle shop hadn’t come in yet—but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He turned on his bedside lamp and waved a hand at the switch by the door. It flipped upward and the overhead light came on as well, flooding the room with a cold fluorescence. 

“Where’s the letter?” he asked, struggling to maintain some degree of calm. He knew that these letters, the fact that he was being blackmailed, wasn’t Hermione’s fault. He didn’t want to take his frustration out on her—she didn’t deserve that—but he was so bloody mad he could feel himself beginning to shake. 

“I left it on the little table there,” said Hermione, pointing toward their private sitting area. Harry stepped down off of the dais and crossed to pick up the parchment and read what was written there. 

ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND GALLEONS.

YOU KNOW THE DRILL.

YOU HAVE UNTIL THE FIFTH AT MIDNIGHT.

Beneath the block letters, a silver sickle was sellotaped to the parchment—a portkey, Harry knew. Untraceable. 

“I was going to show you in the morning,” Hermione said. “I thought at least one of us should get a decent night’s sleep.”

“The bastard wants ten times what I sent last time,” Harry said. “What’s changed?” 

Hermione stood, crossing to join him beside the coffee table. 

“Greed? Maybe they know you can afford more?” 

“Then why not ask for more the first bloody time?” Harry snapped, crumpling the note in his hand. Hermione froze beside him, and he swore beneath his breath. “I’m sorry,” he said, “It’s not you I’m mad at.” 

“I know.” Her voice was so soft he could barely hear her, and so Harry looked up, meeting her gaze and reaching out to pull her into a tight hug. 

“I swear, Hermione. I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry if it seems that way.” 

She relaxed into his embrace, and Harry breathed in the scent of her floral shampoo as he tried to sort through the things he was feeling. 

God, he was so angry. Angry at this anonymous blackmailer and at his own inexcusable inability to do a damn thing to protect his child from the threat they posed. He was a fucking Auror, he’d defeated Voldemort! He, of all people, should be able to keep his daughter safe from the pain the truth would cause her and from this invisible, unknowable threat. How could he be so useless. 

“Harry?” 

“Hmmm?” 

“Are you crying, love?” 

He shook his head fiercely, because the hot streaks on his cheeks weren’t tears. He was angry, that was all. 

Hermione held him more tightly, her arms wrapping around his ribs and pulling him closer. She said nothing, and Merlin he was grateful for her silent strength, for the solid presence she gifted him as he raged inwardly. 

It took several minutes for him to compose himself, and once he had, he pulled away, wiping his damp face with the back of one hand and clearing his throat. Hermione was kind enough not to look at him until he spoke again, and when she did, her own eyes were sparkling with unshed tears. 

“We’ll have to pay it,” he said. 

Hermione nodded her agreement and then paused. 

“I think…” and then her voice trailed off, as if she weren’t quite sure how to phrase her thought. 

“What?” asked Harry. 

Hermione frowned and then met his gaze. 

“I think we need to check in on Rowle.” 

Harry’s fists clenched again at the sound of the woman’s name. How he hated her. 

“If something went wrong with your memory charm… she might know. Or at least be able to tell us who else does.” Hermione’s frown had turned into a scowl now, as if the mere mention of the woman was distasteful enough to sour her mood further. Harry had to admit that she was right about that.

“You’re right,” he agreed, nodding. “We have to know.” 

They sat with their decision in silence for half a minute more before Hermione spoke again. 

“I’ll arrange something with my parents. I’m sure they’ll watch Delphi for us soon. We can go then.” 

Harry nodded and raised his hand to touch his temples, putting pressure on either side of his face to help relieve the headache he could feel coming on. 

“Let me help,” Hermione offered. She led him back to the bed and sat him on the edge before climbing up behind him. Her fingers twined through his hair, dancing across his scalp and massaging away the pain which had, moments ago, been threatening to overtake him. 

“Jesus Christ, where did you learn that?” he asked absentmindedly. 

Hermione chuckled softly. 

“Lavender,” she said. “Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep, and my tossing and turning was keeping her up, she’d do it for me. She said it was easier than waking up with bags under her eyes.”

Harry felt a twinge at the mention of a housemate he hadn’t been able to save but pushed it aside. 

“Well, thank Circe for Lavender.” 

Hermione continued her ministrations for several minutes more, until Harry was feeling a little more relaxed and the splitting headache which had threatened to overtake him had waned. 

“Thank you,” he said when she was done. 

Hermione didn’t answer, only settled her hands on her shoulders and kissed the top of his head. At the feeling of her pressed against his back, all silken and warm, Harry moved instinctively. He raised a hand, grabbing onto her her wrist and pulling it forward until he could turn to the side and kiss her palm. She made a tiny, satisfied noise behind him, and Harry felt himself begin to grow stiff beneath his pants. 

It was crazy how much he could want her, even after the drama of the newest threat, and by the way she was wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing the shell of his ear, he reckoned she wanted him as well. 

_ What the hell _ , he thought, denying himself this connection would do nothing to bring the perpetrator to justice, or to change the fact that he was responsible for a secret that could destroy Delphi’s life. And maybe, just maybe, for the time it took him to bring Hermione to an ear-splitting orgasm, he could forget about the axe hanging over his head. 

“Harry,” she whispered his name and he felt her breath on his neck. “Are you sure you want to—” 

His answer was to turn quickly, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her onto his lap so that she could feel his arousal against her arse. 

“Oh,” she said. Her lips were slightly parted—inviting—and as his gaze travelled down over her flushed neck and to the thin satin of her nightie, he could see her nipples pebbled there beneath the fabric, aching for his touch. 

“I want you,” he said, leaning in to rub his bearded cheek against hers and drop a kiss at the corner of her mouth before speaking again. “I want to bury myself inside of you until I can’t remember my own name.” 

She gasped, and he thrust his hips upward, pushing his rock-hard cock between her thighs for a moment and feeling the heat of her through his own underthings for barely a second before she groaned and then pushed him backward, swinging one leg over his so that she was straddling him. Her hand trailed from his chest, down over his midsection as she sat up straight, her hips over his and the head of his cock kissing the top of her pubic bone as it strained against its cotton confinement. At last, her clever fingers dipped beneath the elastic band slung low over his hips, and she tugged it up and over his length, exposing him to the night air. 

Harry swallowed, watching her as she licked her lips and then rose up, tilted her hips, and sank back down onto his cock, encasing his length in hot, slick velvet that clenched and made him hiss as his back arched and he thrust up into her. 

She rode him then, and Harry settled his hands on her hips, keeping his eyes riveted on her rose tipped breasts as they swayed and bounced above him with every move she made. She was delicious, a goddess with a body he could worship for ages and never tire of. Everything, from the sweat dampened curls clinging to her breasts, to the wide scar cutting across her ribs and belly… Every inch of her was perfection. 

And Merlin but she was tight. He could feel the walls of her pussy clenching around him as she descended, and then fluttering as she rocked on top of him, leaning forward and bracing herself against his chest to find that perfect, satisfying angle of pressure. 

Her curls fell down on either side of his face, a perfect veil that kept out the world with all of its worries and trouble, and showed him only her sublime, blushing face as she came on top of him. She bit her lip tightly, and Harry groaned at the sight of her pleasure, reaching out to wrap an arm around her waist and then pull her down so that her breasts were pressed to his chest, their bodies were flush and he was still rock hard inside of her as her breathing slowed and she began to nestle her face into his chest. She made soft, satisfied little moaning sounds, and he bit his lip to keep from flipping her immediately onto her back and fucking her with abandon. 

“You haven’t…” she said, leaving her sentence unfinished. 

“No.” 

“Do you want—”

“Fuck, more than anything.” 

She giggled, and the sound warmed him—made him ache even harder. 

“Go on then,” she whispered into his ear, her lips grazing against him as she spoke. “Have your way with me.” 

And he did. 

Over, and over again until he could hardly remember his own name, let alone a crumpled note sitting on the floor halfway across the room. 

  
  



	34. Chapter 34

173 Dupart Lane

9 October 1999

The place was just as she remembered it in her dreams. The overgrown front garden was still wild with weeds, and the rose bush by the front door had grown up over the solitary window at the front of the house. The only difference tonight, was that there was no moon in the sky to cast a silver glow over the scene, and consequently, they were forced to light their wands. The light startled a hare near the front porch, which dashed away as if its life depended on it. The poor creature probably thought it did. 

Harry stood beside her, a scowl on his face as he surveyed the patchwork roof and peeling paint of the cottage exterior. 

“Merlin, this place is a wreck,” he said. “It makes me wonder what Rowle actually spent all of Malfoy’s gold on.” 

Hermione spotted a garbage bin near the front door, and beside it, the shards of a broken liquor bottle. 

“Drink, most likely.” She sniffed and squared her shoulders. “Shall we get on with it?” 

Harry nodded stiffly. 

Thank God, thought Hermione as they began to approach the front door. Thank God they had gotten Delphi out of this place when they had. She had to remind herself that the girl was being happily spoiled at Hermione’s parents’ home, and that she would never be hungry again if she had any say, which Hermione did, both by virtue of the fact that she was the girl’s godmother, and the fact that she was living with Delphi’s father. 

“You remember the plan?” Harry asked when they had reached the front steps. 

Hermione gave him a withering look. 

“You mean the one that I came up with?” 

“Sorry. I’m just… I want everything to go well.” 

“So do I,” she reminded him. “Now look sharp.” She reached out and rapped on the door, her wand held loosely in her hand as she rolled back her shoulders and put on her best imitation of Percy Weasley. 

Harry tensed beside her at once. He was holding his wand so tightly she thought it might be in danger of snapping in two. Hermione reached out and brushed her fingertips against his forearm for just a moment before the front door swung inward and a flood of light filtered out into the darkness. 

“Who’s there?” came a sharp, gravelly voice from inside. Hermione blinked, allowing her eyes to adjust to the brightness before she finally managed to focus on a figure in the doorway. 

The woman was tall and heavy set, with skin that sagged at her neck and greying hair piled atop her head in a greasy looking bun. There was a sherry glass in one of her hands, and a thick, diamond encrusted bracelet on her other. There was the mystery of the Malfoy gold solved. Hermione wanted to curse the woman. 

She waited several seconds for Harry to speak as they had planned, but a furtive glance in his direction showed that he was standing so still that he might not have been breathing.

“Ms Rowle?” Hermione asked at last, turning her attention back to the aging woman in the doorway. 

“Who’s asking?” She sounded suspicious, so Hermione smiled broadly. 

“My name is Dominica Shafiq. I’m from the Ministry.” She motioned to Harry, whose beard and long hair rendered him close to incognito these days. Not many people expected the Boy Who Lived to look like a man. “This is my partner, Aldwin Banks. May we come in?” 

Euphemia Rowle adjusted her housecoat and cleared her throat. 

“Aurors?” Her assumption was just what Hermione had been counting on. “What do you lot want? I told you last time you was here, I don’t know about what Thorfinn did. He never came around here.” 

“All the same,” Hermione smiled, “we’d appreciate your cooperation.” 

Rowle grunted and seemed to hesitate, but ultimately stepped aside. 

“Shafiq, you say?” she asked as Hermione passed by her and into the house, Harry following closely behind. “Are you related to Cambric Shafiq?” 

“I’m sure I must be,” she answered, pretending to think for a moment, “but growing up in India, my parents rarely spoke about the rest of the family.”

“Are you a half blood then?” Rowle sneered. 

Hermione arched a brow, hearing the grunt from Harry’s direction and dismissing it. “No, Ms Rowle,” she answered. “I’m afraid I’m not. Now, if you don’t mind, we have several questions for you.” 

“I already told you I don’t know nothing,” Rowle protested, gesturing around the room and spilling some of her drink onto the carpet. “This place never had nothing to do with him. I barely knew the bastard to be honest. He was younger than me. I was sixteen by the time he was born, you know.” 

Hermione had not known about the age gap, but she did know that Rowle was lying. The Malfoys had told Harry that the woman had been a true believer in Voldemort’s cause. If she hadn’t been involved directly, she had still supported her younger brother’s activities. 

“Are you the only person who lives here, Ms Rowle?” Hermione asked, ignoring the old woman’s protestations. 

Rowle made a disgusted sound and nodded, draining her sherry in two gulps and then setting the glass down on a side table by the front door. 

“For how long?” Hermione asked. 

“Since my mum died thirty years ago, if you must know.” Rowle turned and made her way into the living room. “Come on then. Might as well sit down if you’re going to spend all evening prodding into my old wounds.” Hermione watched as the woman settled into an armchair, leaving the threadbare sofa open for them. She moved to sit, but Harry stood stock still where he was, biting his lip hard and glaring at the woman. 

“Come sit, Banks,” Hermione said, tugging his arm once to get his attention. Harry flicked his attention toward her, and his eyes burned with fury. She plead silently with him until, at last, he broke his gaze and strode to the sofa, sitting down with his back ramrod straight, not saying a word. Hermione joined him and then forced herself to smile at the old woman, who was grabbing a nearby bottle and lifting it to her lips. 

“Don’t mind if I don’t offer you any,” she said once she had taken a healthy swig. 

“Have you been in contact with your brother at all,” Hermione asked, ignoring the woman’s antics. 

Rowle’s eyes glittered with hatred. 

“Not since you lot sent him to Azkaban. He’s a no contact prisoner for another five years.” 

“You seem upset.” Harry spoke for the first time since he had seen Rowle. “I thought you said you barely knew your brother.” 

Rowle sniffed and looked away. “He was still kin,” she said. “And blood means something. Not that you would know.” She looked back at him, scowling. “Banks. Muggle name, isn't it?” 

“You don’t know anything about me,” said Harry, but before he could continue, Hermione set a hand on his arm, silencing him. He was practically vibrating with his anger, and she squeezed his forearm hard in warning.

“I know enough to know you’re not from good stock,” spat Rowle. 

“Ms Rowle,” Hermione said, trying to keep her voice soothing, “have you any other family your brother might have tried to contact? Cousins, perhaps? Do you have any children?” 

Rowle’s eyes narrowed. 

“I’ve never been married,” she said. 

“Small wonder,” muttered Harry, low enough that only Hermione could hear. 

“Have you had any wards in the past that your brother might have been acquainted with—any guests who have stayed in your home?” 

“I answered all these questions when you people came the first time,” said Rowle. “My answers aren’t changing. What’s this really about? Get your kicks harassing poor old women, do you?” 

“Poor,” Harry hissed. 

“Stop,” Hermione tried to tell him, but Harry wasn’t listening anymore. There was a strange ripple around him, an almost tangible force that was roiling like an ocean in a hurricane. She brushed against it and felt a sizzle of magic. 

“Merlin,” she whispered. She needed to get the both of them out of there, and fast. 

“You’re wearing at least ten thousand galleons on your wrist, and you expect us to believe you’re  _ poor _ ?” 

“What are you talking about?” Euphemia scowled, looking down at her arm. “This thing?” She lifted her wrist with the diamond encrusted bracelet on it. “This isn’t  _ real _ . I found it in some of my old costume jewelry a year or so ago.” 

It was Harry’s turn to make a contemptuous noise. “You probably bought it after you got a big fat Malfoy pay day. You’re disgusting. Buying yourself jewelry before you feed a fucking baby.” 

Hermione watched the confusion blooming on Rowle’s heavily lined face, and she knew in that moment that the woman had no idea what Harry was talking about. If the bracelet she wore was, indeed, real, she had no memory of having bought it… because Harry’s memory charm had worked, and it still held. The woman had no recollection of Delphi, or the arrangement she’d come to with the Malfoys. It was as if it had never happened. 

“We should go,” Hermione said at once, standing abruptly and begging Harry to join her with a pleading look. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Ms Rowle.” 

“Hang on a minute—” began Rowle. 

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Harry and there was a faint red glow building around him now, crackling through the air. 

It scared her. 

“You are despicable.” 

Harry was moving slowly now, standing and stepping toward Rowle, who sprang from her seat in alarm. She moved so quickly that the loose skin around her neck swayed. 

“What you did,” continued Harry, “It’s unforgivable. You’ll rot in hell for it.” 

“What are you talking about? I haven’t done nothing!” 

“Exactly!” Harry shouted, and Hermione stood in stunned silence, watching as he prowled towards the old woman. “YOU DID NOTHING! You neglected her, and abused her, and left her to die in her own shit! Left her starving and soiled in a goddamned cupboard, freezing under an open window!” 

Hermione’s eyes widened. Had Harry realized what he had just said? But she didn’t have long to ponder it, because Euphemia Rowle was looking panicked now, as if she’d only just realized the man in front of her was a threat. 

“Harry!” Hermione called at once, realizing what her genuine confusion meant. “She doesn’t remember! Stop it!” 

“It doesn’t matter what she remembers,” Harry said, his voice cold as ice and hard as granite. “There’s no forgiving what she did.” 

“I didn’t do it!” Rowle shrieked in terror. 

“STOP LYING!” Harry’s booming voice sent the old woman to her knees in fear and set her to trembling. There were tears beginning to stream down her face now, and as Hermione watched, the crackling field of energy surrounding Harry seemed to snap inward and then burst out, sending a wave of red light jetting toward Rowle. It washed over her body and then disappeared. 

She started to scream a moment later, dropping onto the floor and beginning to convulse. 

Hermione watched in horrified silence for several seconds before she looked at Harry and saw the shock and the terror there on his face. 

“Finite!” Hermione cried at once, aiming her wand at Rowle as she spoke. Almost at once, the woman fell silent but for the sound of her racking sobs and pleas. 

“What—” Harry began, looking bewildered but still full of rage. 

Hermione cut him off. 

“Go,” she ordered, moving to kneel beside Rowle, whose house dress now betrayed that the woman had lost control of her bladder.

“Hermione—" 

“Get out, Harry!” she hissed. “I’ll take care of it. Just go!” 

Harry stood there for several seconds more, seeming to war within himself, and then he nodded once and strode from the room so rapidly she might have thought he was running away. 

“Merlin, don’t hurt me, please!” begged Rowle, still writhing around on the ground. She was trying to get away from Hermione now. 

“Hush,” Hermione ordered, trying to make her voice soothing, because as much as she hated what the woman had done to Delphi, as much as she wanted some kind of revenge… the witch had no memory of her sins. And it was safer if it stayed that way. 

  
  
  
  


4 Cerridwen Court, Godric’s Hollow

9 October 1999

When Hermione finally left the dilapidated cottage, it had been with Euphemia Rowle sleeping soundly in her bed, freshly washed, and with no memory of what had transpired in her living room less than fifteen minutes before. Hermione had checked her charm work thoroughly with diagnostic spells she had learned after rescuing Delphi, and then slipped out the front door--leaving it unlocked but firmly shut--and then turned to face the front garden. Harry had been nowhere in sight. 

Sighing, she had walked to the end of the lane, wrapping her travelling cloak tightly about herself. The wind had whipped at her on the walk, and in the distance, she had heard an augurey’s call. Moments later, the rain had begun to fall. Hermione had pulled up her hood as quickly as possible, but her hair was already becoming wild, and the rain had run in tiny rivulets from her neck, down the front of her blouse. By the time she had reached the Apparition point, she’d been soaked through, not bothering to cast an Umbrella Charm to shield herself. Besides, she hadn’t known who was watching. There might have been Muggles about. 

She turned on the spot, and there was a loud crack as she appeared outside of the manor house’s front gate. It was dry in Godric's Hollow that night, but windy, and the cool air bit at her damp cheeks. 

What a bloody mess they had made. Their carefully planned strategy of probing for information had been thrown out of the proverbial window when Harry had seen the woman, and Hermione cursed herself for not considering what a visceral reaction he would have to his child’s abuser. Still, things had gotten far too out of hand, and they needed to discuss what had happened. It was not a conversation she was looking forward to. 

She let herself in the gate and walked up the stone path to the front doors. The wards responded to the touch of her hand on the door, and it swung inward, admitting her. In the entryway, Hermione paused, listening. She heard a little clink coming from the kitchen and made her way there. She found Harry sitting on a stool in front of the island, a mug in one hand. 

“Coffee?” she asked, slipping up and onto the seat beside him. 

Harry nodded once and took a sip. 

“May I?”

He held the mug out to her, and she sniffed it. The smell of firewhisky rolled off of the dark mixture within, and she wrinkled her nose. 

“On second thought.” She handed the drink back to him. 

“I’m not in the mood for an argument,” Harry said, taking another sip and then studying the marble countertop. 

“I don’t want to argue.” 

“Then what  _ do _ you want?” 

He was clearly still upset, and Hermione thought for a moment about leaving him to his mood. She had never been very good at leaving things alone though, and she had once heard that one should never go to bed without first resolving an argument. She very much hoped the advice had been sound. 

“I only want to talk. Things were… tense at Rowle’s—” 

“Don’t,” cut in Harry. “I don’t ever want to hear that woman’s name again.” 

Hermione took a deep breath but bit her lip and nodded. 

“Fine,” she said, “but we still need to discuss what happened. Harry, you lost control of your magic.” 

He didn’t respond, only took another sip of his spiked coffee and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was scowling, and Hermione could see that the back of his neck was starting to grow red. 

“You really have nothing to say to me?” Hermione asked in disbelief. 

Harry turned his head just enough so that he could meet her eye. 

“What do you want from me?” 

“I don’t want anything! I just want us to not pretend that everything is okay.” 

“So you’d rather I lose my temper.” 

“No,” said Hermione, her own temper growing short. “No, that’s not what I want.” 

“Then just come out and tell me what you want me to say,” Harry demanded, turning back to his drink. “Because I’m not interested in talking in riddles tonight.” 

Hermione crossed her arms and sighed. 

“Fine,” she said. “You want to know what I want? I want to talk about the fact that you accidentally Crucioed a woman tonight. Wandlessly.” 

“It wasn’t an Unforgivable,” Harry contradicted mutinously. “I’m an Auror, I think I’d be able to recognize a—”

“Don’t lie to me Harry, and for Circe’s sake, don’t lie to yourself. You know what it was.” 

Harry didn’t answer, and so Hermione continued. 

“Your emotions were out of control…” her voice trailed off for a moment before continuing. “There’s a reason accidental magic is so rare in adults. We learn to control our emotions as we grow, and our magic reacts to that control. We don’t often throw temper fits after going to Hogwarts, and when we do, they aren’t because of any serious trauma.” 

“Are you saying you think I was throwing a tantrum,” Harry asked, his question low and dangerous sounding. 

“No,” Hermione responded. “I think it’s more likely you were experiencing something akin to post traumatic stress.” 

“What?” Harry sounded confused, surprised. 

“I think when you attacked—her, tonight, you weren’t just thinking about Delphi.” 

Harry’s eyes widened, and he slammed the coffee mug down onto the countertop. Dark liquid sloshed over the side. 

“Delphi is  _ all _ I could think about,” he said. “That monster opened the door, and all I could see was my daughter the night I found her, and that  _ bitch _ sleeping soundly in her bed, as if she weren’t torturing a baby. A baby, Hermione! She was just a baby! And Rowle couldn’t be arsed to feed her properly, or change her bloody nappy, or—” his voice broke. “Or hold her.” 

Hermione felt her throat grow tight and blinked several times as Harry continued. 

“You can’t just leave a baby there alone by themselves day after day, neglected… unloved.” His words stopped on a whisper, and Hermione felt something inside of her heart rip open. 

“What happened to you was wrong, Harry,” she spoke fiercely, tears in her eyes at the thought. 

“Me?” Harry looked confused. “I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about Delphi.” 

“I know,” said Hermione. “I know that’s who you think we’re talking about. What happened to her was awful. Evil. But Harry, I don’t think that under normal circumstances, you would have reacted as strongly as you did tonight. I don’t think that your torturing that woman—”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“—was just about what she did to Delphi. I think this is about what your aunt and uncle did to  _ you _ .”

“The Dursley’s?” Harry said their name in disbelief. “You think this is about Petunia and Vernon?” 

Hermione nodded, and Harry made a noise of disgust. 

“This is ridiculous,” he said. “You think my being angry about someone hurting my kid—”

“You were more than angry.”

“—is an overreaction? That it’s all in my head because of my childhood?” 

“You’re putting words in my mouth, Harry.” 

“You’re saying enough that I don’t have to put anything anywhere!”

“Please calm down, I’m only saying—”

“Saying what?” Harry’s tone was white hot and furious. 

Hermione swallowed and blinked back the unexpected tears which had begun to spring into her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, almost inaudible. 

“I’m only saying that that it had an effect on you, and that if you don’t deal with it somehow, it might get worse.”

Harry laughed coldly. 

“Worse,” he echoed. “How could it get worse?” He stood up, carrying his mug over to the sink and setting it in the bottom with a clang. “Vernon is dead,” he said, with his back to Hermione. “It’s not as if he can hurt me anymore. And Petunia lives across a goddamn ocean. I don’t give a damn about either of them anymore.” 

“Then why did you mention the cupboard?” 

Harry went completely still at Hermione’s question and then turned slowly to face her, arms crossed defensively and shoulder slightly hunched. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked. 

“When we were at her house, when you were shouting at her. You said she left Delphi starving in a cupboard. But she wasn’t in a cupboard when you found her, Harry. She was in the kitchen.” She tried to keep her voice calm, her demeanor non threatening. The look of shock on Harry’s face made her want to run to him, to throw her arms around him and hold him close, but she knew it would be a bad idea now, in the middle of this particular conversation. 

“No I—I didn’t. I wouldn’t have said that,” Harry said, shaking his head. “You misheard me.” 

“No,” answered Hermione. Her voice was more forceful now. “I didn’t.” 

Harry’s mood turned even more sour, and he scowled at her. “So what if I did,” he said. “Even if it happened, it was obviously a mistake. I know where she was when I found her. I’m not stupid.” 

Hermione sighed. “No one’s saying that Harry. I think that seeing Rowle just… brought up a lot of emotions you’ve done a very good job of keeping locked away. I think seeing the way Delphi was treated by that woman reminded you of how  _ you _ were treated when you were little.”

“It’s different,” said Harry, and he was getting angrier now. “The Dursley’s never abused me, not like that.” 

Hermione gave him a look that she hoped was not pitying, but which conveyed her disbelief. 

“Oh, Harry,” she said. “It’s alright to be angry at them. I just think… maybe you would benefit from seeing someone who might be able to help you channel that anger, and manage any future bursts of accidental magic when you’re triggered by something—” 

“You think I need to see a mind-healer?!” Harry said in disbelief. “Because I lost my temper with a woman who nearly murdered my daughter?” 

“No— Harry you’re twisting my words, I think—” 

But Harry would not let her explain herself, furious as he was. 

“Look, Hermione. It’s not my fault if you can’t see that evil hag for what she really is. I couldn’t just sit there and let her get away with what she’d done. You’d understand that if you really loved Delphi the way I—” 

“Excuse me?” Hermione cut him off. “Are you implying what I think you’re implying.” 

Harry, apparently too upset to think through his words properly, shrugged.

“I was trying to protect Delphi, and you just kept pretending as if nothing was wrong. Maybe the real problem here is that you weren’t angry enough.” 

Hermione froze, shaking with rage now. 

“How dare you,” she hissed. “How bloody well dare you.” 

Harry blushed but stood there stubbornly, still breathing hard. 

“For your information,” Hermione spat out, “I love Delphi more than I love life itself. I might even love her more than I love  _ you _ right now, Harry Potter. I would die for that girl. I’d kill for her.” She stood up from her stool abruptly, and it clattered backwards, falling onto the hardwood floor. 

“We’re done with this conversation,” she said, and began to stride towards the front door. “I’m going to go bring Delphi home now.” 

“Hermione,” Harry called, when she had reached the front door. She glared at him over her shoulder, stopping with her palm on the door handle. He was looking panicked, his eyes wide.

“Don’t you ever—” she said, cutting off whatever it was he had been about to say, “—accuse me of not caring for Delphi again. Never.” And then she opened the door, stepping out and then slamming it behind her as she strode through the front garden and toward the gate. There, she Apparated away, leaving Harry to stare at the empty space she left. 

  
  



	35. Chapter 35

The Ministry of Magic

15 October 1999

Inside of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, near the Auror bull-pen, there existed a room for which Auror’s had consistently lobbied for decades. It was there, in the candlelit locker-room, that Harry stood beneath the spray of a hot shower after having had his arse handed to him on his first day back in the field. 

“That’s a nasty bruise.” 

Harry turned off the water and ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it back away from his face and then looking back up at the person who had spoken. 

Ron stood against a row of lockers, his arms crossed and uniform pristine as usual. 

“I’ve had worse,” said Harry, grabbing a towel off of the hook beside the shower and wrapping it around his waist. His long hair continued to drip down his back, but the cold trickle was soothing against his tender skin. 

“I’m well aware,” laughed Ron, moving aside to let Harry into his locker. “Hermione’s going to ride your arse for that later, you know.” 

Harry snorted. Hermione hadn’t ridden anything of his lately, and it was coming to the point where he would be grateful for her chiding. It wasn’t that she’d been ignoring him exactly, but her fury over the way he had acted had not abated when she had returned with Delphi that evening, nor had it dissipated once he had admitted that she had probably been right about his reaction, and then agreed to see a mind-healer. 

He pulled a t-shirt over his head, wincing at the ripple of pain in his shoulders as he did so.

“What is it? Trouble in paradise?” 

Harry shrugged instinctively and winced again. “You know Hermione.” 

Ron laughed. “Damn right I do. She having a snit?” 

Harry gave a warning look, and Ron rolled his eyes in response. 

“She attacked you with birds yet?” 

“No,” said Harry firmly. “Then again, I haven’t led her on and then snogged another girl in front of her.” 

Ron didn’t answer, only grinned more broadly. “What  _ did _ you do?” 

“None of your goddamned business.” Harry pulled on his pants, letting the sodden towel drop to the floor. “Besides, I  _ apologised _ for what I did.” 

“And she’s still angry?” 

Harry nodded once. 

“Did you bring her flowers?” 

“Flowers?” asked Harry sceptically. “You sure it was Hermione Granger you dated?”

“It’s what my dad brings my mum when he’s fucked up. She always goes all starry-eyed and—”

“Hermione doesn’t like flowers,” Harry cut in. “Not the ones that die.” 

Ron held up his hands in mock surrender. “Your call,” he said, “I was only suggesting.” He watched him for a few seconds more before asking, “Off to see her now?” 

Harry picked the towel back up once he was dressed and rubbed it over his hair vigorously for a moment before tossing it onto a bench. “No,” he said at last. “She’s out tonight with some friends.” 

“You weren’t invited?” 

“Girls only,” Harry clarified. “Besides, I’ve got to get Delphi. Watching Teddy too, actually. Going to give Andromeda a weekend to herself for once.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“What?” asked Harry through gritted teeth. 

Ron shrugged. “Nothing." But he looked so amused that Harry wanted to punch him. 

“Spit it out,” Harry demanded. 

“I’m just wondering,” said Ron, “whether you realise how pitiful you sound right now.” 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“ _ Hermione’s gone _ ,” said Ron, his voice pitched unnaturally high to poke fun at Harry, “ _ And I’m watching the children. By the way, have you seen my testicles? I seem to have misplaced them. _ ” 

“Shut up, you prat,” said Harry, flinging the soggy towel from the bench at Ron’s face. “It’s not pitiful to take care of my own bloody kids. Teddy’s my godson!” 

“No,” said Ron, sounding more serious now. “You’re a good father. But you’re also wallowing over whatever the hell is going on between you and Hermione. It’s like fifth year all over again with your angst lately.” 

“I’m not angsty,” argued Harry, offended. 

Ron folded his arms across his chest and gave Harry a disbelieving look. 

“I just—” Harry floundered for a way to express himself for a moment. “I realised I have a bunch of my own personal shit to work through.” Ron tilted his head to the side, his expression earnest and curious. “Like about the Dursleys,” Harry finished quickly, refusing to make eye-contact now. 

There was silence for several long seconds before Ron spoke, and when he did his voice was even and serious. 

“One of my worst memories from before the war was rescuing you from Privet Drive,” he said. Harry looked up at the words, shocked as Ron continued. “It wasn’t that I wasn’t glad we got you out of there, mate— but I had nightmares sometimes afterward, that my parents had put bars on my windows and left me in my room without food. I don’t think I realised how completely fucked up a thing it was until years later, but it was always uncomfortable to think about.” 

“I—I didn’t realise,” said Harry. 

Ron shook his head and shrugged. “You wouldn’t have,” he said. “It was all you had until you had us. You didn’t know it wasn’t normal. You were a kid. And I’m glad—really glad—that you’re getting to a point where you’re ready to work it all out in your head. Hermione and I, we worried about you.” 

And Harry was coming to understand that now, to realise that his friends had always wanted what was best for him, and had known his struggles more intimately than even he had. 

“Thanks,” said Harry. 

“Yeah, of course.” Ron sighed and stood up straight. “I should probably get—” 

But before he could finish his sentence, a silvery Patronus burst into the room. The swan was graceful and lovely, and when it spoke, Harry recognised the thick French accent at once. 

“Harry, you must come to retrieve Hermione,” came Fleur’s voice. “She is not well.” 

The message ended with a burst of giggles, and Harry stared blankly at the spot where the swan had stood. 

“Was she pissed?” asked Ron, looking amused now. 

“I think so,” said Harry, who was just as shocked as Ron. “I guess I need to go.” 

“Good luck, mate,” laughed Ron, clapping Harry on the back and then apologising when Harry swore at the sudden pressure on bruised flesh. 

  
  
  
  
  


The Leaky Cauldron

15 October 1999

“Hermione?” 

Merlin, how had she never realised how artistic gum could be? As she lay beneath the long wooden table, she traced the patterns of multi-coloured chewing gum that had accumulated on the underside of the thing over the years. What flavour had that what been, she wondered? Really, the table was a canvas, and the way it spun above her seemed to highlight the hard work a generation or more of gum-chewers had done there. 

“Hermione, get out from under the table.” 

“Ugh,” she groaned. Looking away from the chewing gum masterpiece was enough to set her off again, and she felt another wave of nausea roiling in the pit of her stomach. 

“Come on, you,” said a firm voice. 

She felt a pair of hands wrap themselves around her upper arms, hoisting her out from beneath the table and out onto the sticky plank floor of the Leaky Cauldron. 

“Angelina, could you please stop swaying like that?” 

The woman grinned, but from her angle, Hermione thought it looked more like a grimace. “You’re pissed."

“I don’t get pissed,” Hermione protested. 

“Plastered? Smashed? Wasted?” 

“Uh-uh,” said Hermione. 

“Well—” Angelina put her hands on her hips. “Whatever you are, Fleur’s just sent word to Harry to come collect you.” 

Hermione’s gaze, which had before darted from one light on the room to another, focused abruptly on Angelina, who was staring down with one arched eyebrow and a smug expression. 

“You’re enjoying this,” Hermione accused her. 

“It’s not often I get the chance to be the responsible friend.” Angelina winked. “Come on now, sit here.” She hoisted Hermione up, helping her to stabilise on her thin, strappy high heels for a moment before sitting her down on the nearest bench. “Now, you wait here for Harry while I go Floo George and—”

“Don’t want to wait for him,” Hermione grumbled, standing up shakily and then steadying herself on the table. Angelina leaned forward, taking Hermione by the shoulders and sitting her back down. 

“Sit,” she ordered, and then Angelina made her way across the room to where Fleur stood giggling, her voice unnaturally high. Was that Bill standing in front of the woman, wrapping an arm possessively around her waist and growling at the men who had gathered around the silvery blonde? Where had he come from? 

At that point, Hermione lost track of Angelina, and not wanting to be left waiting at the bar forever, she stood. Merlin, when had her high heels become so wobbly? She leaned down and fumbled with the buckle for a moment before hooking a finger in the strap and pulling it down over her heel. She did the same to the other and held them in one and as she began to walk toward the open pub door. 

Where had everyone gone? 

The night air was cool against her skin as she walked, and Hermione realised that she had left her jacket in the pub. She turned to retrieve it and found herself facing a building she didn’t recognize. Where was she? She had thought that the door through which she had left the Leaky Cauldron would lead her into Diagon Alley, but this looked like Muggle London. How was she supposed to Apparate with Muggles milling about willie nillie? For that matter, how was she supposed to Apparate? Destination, desire, and development? Delinquency? 

She turned, swishing her cloak around herself, and stumbled into a storefront. A middle-aged man passing her on the street looked askance and then quickly averted his eyes as he continued on his way. 

She heard someone whistle and closed her eyes. She just needed a moment, and then she could try again. 

“Hermione!” 

Her eyes flew open. 

“Harry?” She said his name beneath her breath, not completely sure it was him she had heard. 

“Hermione!” 

Definitely him. She groaned and pushed herself back up to stand on her own two feet. Where had  _ he _ come from? 

After determining the direction from which his voice had come, Hermione turned her back on it, making her way down the street. She realized as she walked that she had managed to lose her shoes somehow, but she refused to turn back and look for them. She didn’t want to talk to Harry right now. In fact, she didn’t even want to see him. She’d accepted Fleur and Angelina’s invitation to a girl’s night because she wanted a break from being thoroughly annoyed at the man. How dare he intrude on her evening? 

“There you are,” said someone behind her, and the person sounded relieved. “Hermione, slow down.” 

It was Harry. Hermione kept on walking. 

Behind her, the Boy Who Was Annoying sighed and then followed her. Hermione made a frustrated sound and then whirled to face him. She held out a finger, because she couldn’t recall where she’d left her wand, and poked him in the chest with it. 

“Leave me be,” she demanded and then walked past him in the general direction the Leaky Cauldron. 

He followed, his work boots heavy on the pavement behind her with every step. 

“You’re a terrible sneaker,” Hermione threw over her shoulder at him. 

“I’m not trying to sneak.” Did he look amused? 

“Good. Because you’re bad at it. You’d make a terrible Auror.” 

“Would I?” 

“Definitely.” 

She kept on her way, stumbling over something in the middle of the walkway. She heard Harry chuckle and a warm arm wrap around her from behind, keeping her from landing flat on her face. 

“These yours?” he asked, and he dangled a pair of familiar-looking strappy high heels in front of her. She snatched them away from him and sat down to put them on. Harry watched, his jaw dropping. 

“Hermione, stand up,” he said, “I can see your—” 

Someone across the street whistled and Harry turned, his expression thunderous, to shout back. 

“Fuck off, you arsehole!” 

Hermione looked down and realized that her short skirt had ridden up her thighs and was bunched at her hips, exposing her underthings to the world. 

She swore, stumbling up again and yanking down her hem. 

She was only wearing one shoe now, but Hermione didn’t fancy showing her knickers off again, so she continued her walk, Harry close behind and beginning to fume silently, which irritated her to no end. What right did  _ he _ have to be upset?  _ He _ was the one who had insulted  _ her _ and then gone on to ignore the hurt completely. She had every right to be furious, and he should be begging for her forgiveness, not huffing behind her in consternation. 

At last, Hermione reached the front of the Leaky Cauldron again. She made her way in, intent on reaching the Floo, but before she’d gone five feet Harry was standing in front of her again, a solid wall of muscle and messy black hair. 

“Get out of my way,” she demanded, keeping her eyes on his jaw.

“Hermione, please look at me.” 

“No.” 

He sighed. 

“Look, I’ve brought you something.” He held out a vial of neon yellow liquid that Hermione recognized. 

“Is that Sober-Up?” 

He nodded. 

“No thanks,” she said, perfectly aware that she was sounding belligerent now. “I worked hard for this buzz.” 

Harry snorted. 

“Buzz? Hermione, you’re completely plastered.” 

“So what if I am? Going to accuse me of something else? Not taking things seriously? Not being a fit guardian for my own bloody god-daughter?” 

“What?” To his credit, Harry looked genuinely appalled at the suggestion. 

“He bothering you, girl?” asked someone from behind her. 

“Too right he is,” she responded, and then pushed her way past him. She didn’t hear what was said once they were out of her view, but soon Harry was back at her side, and this time he was pulling her by the arm, down a hall and into a storage room near the loo which he shut firmly behind himself. She didn’t argue much on the way—she wasn’t seriously concerned about what he might do—but once they were inside, she did complain about the smell. 

Frowning, Harry told her “You’ll get over it,” and then drew out the Sober-Up potion once more. 

“Take this.  _ Please _ .” 

Hermione eyed the vial through half-lidded eyes and then, having determined that the amount of potion in the vial would not completely ruin her mood, nodded once. She drained the potion in one swallow and felt it take effect immediately. The room stopped spinning, and she could think in complete sentences again. The roiling in her stomach receded and the sensation of floating she had been enjoying dissipated, bringing her down to earth a little tipsy, but otherwise well. 

She hated it. 

“Happy?” she asked bitterly. 

Harry was watching her, his jaw tense and teeth gritted. 

“Feel better?”

“Worse,” said Hermione. 

“What were you thinking?” 

Her eyes narrowed to slits. 

_ “ _ I don’t believe that’s any of your business,” she answered mutinously. 

“Like hell. You’re my girlfriend! We live together! And I find you so pissed you can barely walk, wandering around Muggle London without shoes?” 

“I needed to blow off steam,” Hermione argued. “I was perfectly safe. Angelina and Fleur were—” 

“Back at the pub! Fleur left with Bill already, and Angelina was frantic because she couldn’t find where you’d gone!” Harry was looking properly upset now, and Hermione allowed herself to feel a little guilty before banishing the sentiment in favour of her own righteous anger. 

“Why do you care?” Hermione spat, “It’s not as if you think very highly of me, after all.” 

“Not as if I— what the hell are you talking about?” He looked confused but Hermione didn’t care. The anger and the hurt she had been harbouring this past week was bubbling to the surface, and she didn’t have any desire to stop it. 

“You told me,” she hissed, “That I didn’t love Delphi as much as you do. You expect me to just forget that without an apology? She’s a daughter to me, Harry, just as much as she is to you! I was there the  _ moment _ she came into your life. I have just as much claim to her and love for her as you do, and I will not be treated as if I’m some threat to—” 

Before she said more her voice was muffled as Harry pulled her close and covered her mouth with his, his hands clutching her and holding her against him as she first struggled and then became overwhelmed by his kiss. God, he tasted like heaven. It was unfair how good he smelled and felt and—

She punched him in the stomach and he doubled over, releasing her. 

“Don’t you kiss me like that,” she shouted, “like you’re trying to shut me up!” 

“I wasn’t trying to shut you up, you daft drunk,” he said, rubbing his stomach where her fist had made contact. “I was happy!” 

Happy? Happy that she’d told him off?

“You don’t get to be happy when I’m so miserable! You owe me an apology, Harry Potter!” 

“I thought I  _ had _ apologized!” he said. “I told you I was wrong, that I was sorry for—”

“For reacting poorly about seeing a mind healer,” Hermione replied. “But you  _ never _ apologized for saying I didn’t care about Delphi! Don’t you see?  _ That’s _ what I’ve been upset about, not your stupid, obstinate refusal to do what’s in your own best interest! That girl is my daughter, Harry! And you just acted as if she were some afterthought to—”

He kissed her again, and Hermione pushed him away. 

“Stop kissing me!” she shouted. But Harry was grinning and seemed to be on the verge of happy laughter. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just— you called her your daughter.” 

She had. It felt so right she’d barely noticed how awkward it must have been for him. Considering they weren’t properly—

“Marry me.” 

When she looked back at him again, it was to see him sinking down to one knee, a look of pure joy on his face that she had not been expecting. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I’m sorry for what I said. I was stupid, and thoughtless, and wrong. And I love you.” He was grinning, and she wasn’t sure whether the scene was real, or the product of a drunken hallucination. 

“Ouch, fuck! What was that for?” Harry rubbed his jaw where she had landed a punch. Hermione’s knuckles ached. 

“Shit,” she said, as the pain radiated throughout her hand and she shook it instinctively. “I’m sorry, Harry! I just— I wasn’t sure this was real!” 

“Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw and then looking up at her from beneath dark lashes. His eyes were a brilliant green, full of amusement and love and a bit of bruised ego… and she knew as they met hers that it really was Harry kneeling in front of her, that he loved her, and that she wanted to kiss him more than she wanted her next breath. 

His next smile came slowly, like a sunrise, and as she watched it bloom, a matching expression grew on her own face. 

“I don’t want you to answer me now,” Harry said at last, “because I’m not convinced you’re not still smashed, but I want to marry you, Hermione. It doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow, or even this year, but—” He reached into his cloak pocket, withdrawing a small velvet box. “I’ve been carrying this bloody thing with me for almost a month now, and I’d love nothing better than to see it on your finger. I want to spend a lifetime with you, to hear Delphi call you mum and to be able to call you my wife and—” 

She kissed him, bending down and wrapping her arms around his neck and drawing him up to stand with her. She devoured his lips and she licked and sucked and gloried in the taste of his mouth. 

Things moved quickly after that kiss. Hands roamed and the knickers she had been so embarrassed by before dropped to the floor. Harry dropped to his knees and made her see stars, not cobwebs in the dingy inside of a storage closet. First with his fingers, talented and nimble, and then with his tongue, which was quickly becoming just as dextrous as his seeker’s hands. 

Before long, Harry was on his feet again, and his tongue was hot on the shell of her ear as his whispered words took her to new heights. 

“You’re precious, darling. You’re going to come for me again, understand? No, don’t just nod, I want to hear you.”

“Harry please, I want to!” 

“What do you want? Tell me.” 

“To come. Please, God, let me come.” 

She could feel his wicked grin against her neck as his fingers continued their slow, steady torment of her oversensitized folds. 

“Surely that’s not all you want, Hermione. With that prodigious mind of yours, I’m sure you can be more specific.” 

Bloody hell. He was going to make her think when all she wanted was to come apart at his touch again. 

“Harder. Little circles on my—my—” 

“You’re what?” he breathed. 

“My clit.” 

He obliged, using his thumb to stroke here there and then brushing two fingers over the slick core of her. 

“What about here?” he asked, dipping just the tips of those fingers inside of her and then withdrawing them. 

“Your fingers. Inside.” She was panting now, and she felt him dip one finger inside of her again. 

“How?”

She groaned in frustration. 

“Deep. Full.  _ Please _ !”

He added another finger and she felt him begin to use them in earnest, curling them upward and brushing against that spot inside of her that always made her scream. She bit her lip to keep in the sound but Harry chuckled against the corner of her mouth and then did something that made her cry out in abandon. 

“Come,” he demanded. “For me. Let me hear you.” 

And Merlin but she did. Every soul in the pub must have heard her. And when she was finally twirling back down to earth, she felt him slide into her, hot and heavy and impossibly hard between her thighs and then up into the part of her that was made to cradle him.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he growled. His words vibrated against her neck and she felt herself glowing with contentment and eagerness for yet another release. As he pressed against her, rocking and thrusting and sliding in and out, that familiar, delicious pressure began to build once again. She whimpered the closer it came and the higher she flew, and then sobbed aloud when she felt herself beginning to quiver and pulse around his shaft, felt her entire world condense and expand in one, disconcerting and supremely satisfying rush.

Her thighs were slick and wet with the evidence of their mingled pleasure when he withdrew, and her eyes were bleary with contentment. 

“Holy hell,” she said at last when she had managed to gather enough brain cells to string together more than a single word. 

Harry chuckled into her hair and then began to nuzzle her cheek. 

“You’re perfect,” he said. And then he paused, wrapping his arms around her anew and holding her so close she could feel his heart beating against her chest. “And I am so…so sorry for what I said. You have to know I don’t think—”

“I know,” she said, feeling a weight lifted from her, and the wonderful happiness that replaced it. “I know.” 

  
  



	36. Chapter 36

4 Cerridwen Court, Godric’s Hollow

31 October 1999

Sunday was a visiting day. If Harry, Hermione, and Delphi weren’t at the Granger home, they were at the Burrow with the Weasley’s, all of whom had been ecstatic to hear that the young couple were engaged. Molly had been desperate to hear the romantic tale, and so when she had asked where the blessed event had taken place, and Hermione had promptly said “at home” while Harry simultaneously stammered “her parent’s house,” the woman had been understandably confused. 

“We agreed to become engaged at home,” Hermione had clarified, before Harry could say anything more. “But he actually proposed in front of my parents.” 

Molly had looked sceptical but let the conversation go. Unfortunately for them Arthur had not. 

“Well, that’s romantic. I proposed in bed,” he had said, waggling his brows. 

“Arthur!” Molly had cried, her cheeks going red to match her hair. 

This particular Sunday, however, the residents of 4 Cerridwen Court had elected to skip the traditional Samhain celebration planned at the Burrow, and instead enjoy a quiet day at home, followed by some light trick or treating. Given the history of the day, both the Weasley clan and the Granger’s had understood, and left the young couple and their child to their own devices. 

Which was how Harry found himself standing in the center of his family room, wearing nothing but a cozy pyjama bottom and a white sheet which had been draped around his torso. 

“Stand still,” Hermione chided from her spot on the rug in front of him. Normally, Harry would have enjoyed the view of his girlfriend on her knees, but as she was currently holding a bunch of really very pointy objects very close to his bare skin, he was more anxious than aroused. 

“I haven’t moved,” said Harry, “Not since the last time you— _ ouch! _ Will you stop doing that?!” 

“Hush,” Hermione chided, jabbing once more with the straight pin until she’d managed to affix it to the pleat she’d been working on. “There, all done.” Her brow furrowed. “Did you have to bleed on your costume? It’s really hard to get bloodstains out of white fabric.” 

“ _ You _ stuck  _ me _ ,” Harry reminded her in disbelief. 

“It was an accident,” she dismissed, and then rose to her feet, drawing her wand from its spot in her nest of curls and pointing it at his waist. 

“ _ Tergeo _ ,” she said, and then leaned down to inspect the stain. She had to cast the charm twice more before she was satisfied, and when she was done, she conjured a full length mirror against the nearest wall before stowing it away again. 

Harry stepped forward to inspect her handiwork. The sheet was draped artfully over one of his shoulders, wide pleats giving it the appearance of an actual garment rather than something his over eager fiancee had stripped off of the bed just an hour before. 

“This is supposed to be greek?” he asked, skeptical. 

“Obviously it’s not an exact replica—” Hermione sounded testy now, “But it’s as close as we’re going to get before it’s time to go out.” 

“You can see half my chest,” Harry complained.

“And what a fine chest it is.” 

“Hermione—”

“Honestly, Harry, you can wear a shirt underneath if that would make you more comfortable.” Hermione was rolling her eyes now and pulling her wand back out. “Now stand still so I can stitch it all together and take out those pins.” 

“Wait till I get it—”

“ _ Suturaexigis _ !” 

He flinched, but Harry could barely feel the thread that shot out of Hermione’s wand as it brushed over his skin and wove its way into the fabric of the bedsheet toga. 

“There,” said Hermione, sounding triumphant. “A proper ancient greek. You could be Odysseus!” She giggled. “Or Orestes.” 

“What about you?” Harry asked, looking back at Hermione. “Where’s your costume?” 

“That’s for me to know, and you to pant over later,” she answered with a wink. 

“Daddy!” 

Delphi’s voice echoed through the house, notifying all occupants that the princess had awakened from her slumber. 

“I’ll get her,” said Hermione at once, leaping to her feet and stowing her wand back in the messy bun she wore. “Will you run downstairs and grab the bag I left on the dining room table? It’s got her costume inside.” 

Harry agreed and as Hermione disappeared down a hallway and toward Delphi’s bedroom, he made his way down the flight of stairs and onto the main floor. The house had come together nicely since they had moved in. Hermione’s help picking out furniture had been invaluable. As it happened, she had an eye for luxury that Harry would never have been able to imitate, and the overstuffed recliners he would have chosen on his own had been replaced by sleek yet comfortable sofas that complimented interesting (but not too interesting) rugs. And the longer they were in residence, the more things seemed to appear when Harry wasn’t looking. He had teased Hermione that she seemed intent on spending what would have gone toward her rent in her own apartment, on expensive looking vases and artwork by people he’d never heard of. She had only shrugged and smiled, burying her nose in one of the books she always seemed to keep nearby. 

In the dining room, Harry found the costume right where Hermione had told him it would be. He opened the bag, making a face at the excessive amount of tissue paper the garment was wrapped in before closing it again and taking it back up stairs. 

“There you are,” Hermione said as she emerged from the loo behind an unkempt looking Delphi. The little girl, still grumpy from having been forced to nap while her adults were having fun, frowned in Harry’s direction before making her way toward the corner of the room and a large reading chair upon which she flung herself dramatically. 

“Hello, Delphi,” Harry said, handing the costume to Hermione, who shrugged and set to unwrapping it. 

“No Hello,” Delphi said into the upholstery. 

Harry tried hard to keep from smiling and ultimately failed. Still, he kept quiet as he approached the girl, dropping to his knees beside her chair once he reached it. 

“Did you have any dreams while you were sleeping?” he asked gently. 

“No,” she responded. She turned her head slightly and pressed her cheek to the seat of the chair so that she could face him. Harry studied her features for a moment, taking in the long lashes and solemn grey eyes above the curve of her smooth cheek. 

“Would you like daddy to show you the bubbles again?” 

Her eyes brightened instantaneously and she nodded, still not budging from her spot. 

Harry drew his wand and pointed it upward. Soon, a stream of bubble in different shapes and sizes was streaming from his wand tip. Ethereal hearts and stars and moons flew up and then fell down to land on the seat around the little girl. She smiled as she watched them, turning onto her back and reaching up with both hands to catch them as they fell. 

“Moo-corn!” she demanded, and Harry flicked his wand once, causing a tiny bubble unicorn to spring out of his wand and gallop in a circle before falling for Delphi to pop. 

He loved seeing her like this. It soothed Harry’s soul to know that she was happy and well cared for, and when she smiled he could see himself in her—could she Hermione in her. Riddle and Lestrange had never smiled like that, he was sure. She’d gotten that from him. And thank God. Seeing the mind healer as Hermione had suggested had opened his eyes to the many paths his life might have taken, not just the what ifs of the war, but of his own childhood and personality. Harry had not realized how easily he might have turned into the delinquent the Dursley’s had painted him as… and if it hadn’t been for Ron, Hermione, and the Weasley’s…he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have given up in the Department of Mysteries, when Voldemort had tried to possess him. 

Seeing Healer De Villiers was painful. He was having to face truths he’d been willfully ignoring for most of his life… but it was freeing too. He was free to see his daughter not as an extension of himself, someone to be saved… but as a child with her own path—his to protect for now, but her own to make into the person she wanted to be. He was realizing that what had happened with the Dursleys was abnormal. Not every orphan was stuffed in a cupboard and starved. Not every child was raised being told their were loathsome and wrong. Not every boy was pitted against his cousin, a child who should have become his best friend, and left to be beaten bloody any time said cousin pleased. It wasn’t normal. It was wrong. What had happened to him was wrong. What had happened to  _ Delphi _ was wrong… but he didn’t have to be controlled by it. 

“More moo-corn, daddy!” Delphi’s giggle distracted him from his thoughts and Harry smiled. 

“Come here, darling,” Hermione called from the makeshift seamstresses shop in the center of her office, “I’ve got your costume ready.” 

Harry watched as Delphi wriggled quickly off of the seat, a perfectly ecstatic expression on her face as she went running toward her godmother. He let his gaze linger on Hermione for a moment, noting the way she beamed when she was interacting with the girl. She was beautiful like that. Not that she wasn’t beautiful every second of every day, but there, with Delphi, she positively glowed.

A tinkling laugh drew his attention once more, and Harry looked back to see Delphi twirling around in a shimmering gold dress, flouncier than anything he’d ever seen, and sporting a long horn on her forehead, just below a golden coronet. 

“Moo-corn Princess!” She shouted gleefully. 

“Would you look at that,” Harry said, acting surprised. “Someone let a unicorn foal into the house. Hermione, was that you?”

Delphi giggled. 

“Certainly not,” Hermione said, smiling broadly. “It must have wandered in. Perhaps it’s lost.” 

“You’re a long way from the forest, little unicorn,” Harry said, scooping Delphi up and twirling her around. “Where’s your mummy unicorn? Have you wandered away from her?” 

“No,” Delphi giggled, leaning backwards and pointing toward Hermione. “Mummy right there!” 

Hermione’s eyes widened for a moment in shock, and Harry paused to watch her. Soon, a blush suffused the brunette’s cheeks, and then a radiant, satisfied smile that she tried to hide. 

“I see,” Harry said to Delphi, “You’re right. I’m not sure how I could have missed her. Mummy?” he addressed his next words to Hermione. “Would you like your baby unicorn back?” 

Hermione blinked rapidly for a moment, brushing the tips of her fingers beneath each eye before clearing her throat and nodding. 

“Certainly,” she said, making her tone dramatic for Delphi’s benefit. “For whatever would a mummy unicorn be without her little foal?” 

“Not foal,” Delphi corrected. “Princess.” 

“Forgive me.” Hermione’s voice was solemn as she met the girl’s reproachful gaze. “Her  _ princess _ unicorn.” 

“Okay,” said Delphi, wriggling back down to the floor. “We get candy now. Daddy, Mummy, get candy for moo-corn princess.” 

Harry laughed. “How the hell does she know she’s getting candy tonight?” 

Hermione shrugged. “I may have extolled the virtues of Trick or Treating to convince her she needed a nap to preserve her energy.” 

“What would your parents think?” Harry teased. 

“My parents sugar Delphi up every chance they get. They’ve no room to disapprove.” 

“Right,” said Harry. “Are we ready then?” 

Hermione looked pointedly at his legs, still covered by denim jeans. “Not very authentic, are they?” She asked dryly. 

Harry sighed. “Go change, and I’ll take these off.” 

“I look forward to the view.” 

“Go get candy now,” interrupted Delphi. “Moo-corn princess eat candy. I hungry.” 

Hermione laughed and Harry watched her go, cursing the fact that he’d agreed to let her dress him for the holiday and wondering just how breezy it was going to be beneath his bedsheet toga. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Godric’s Hollow

31 October 1999

As it happened, a bed sheet—even a repurposed one—was no protection against the elements, especially not an a cold night like the one his little family had been lingering in. 

“Jesus Christ,” Harry swore, watching as Delphi pranced up another set of steps beside Hermione. He leaned down, rubbing the palms of his hands over his bare legs and trying desperately to warm them with friction. It was a wonder his bollocks hadn’t frozen off yet, dropping like shrivelled figs to the hard earth below. If only he’d thought to set a Warming Charm back at the house, because here, surrounded by Muggles, he’d be mad to draw his wand. 

“Alright there, Harry?” Hermione sounded amused as she descended the front steps of the cottage they’d visited, Delphi’s hand in her own. 

“It’s bloody cold out,” he answered. 

Hermione, who  _ had _ remembered a Warming Charm, only smiled smugly. Of course, Harry was not so bitter as to begrudge her the comfort of a well placed spell, especially when it allowed her to walk about in a thin, ankle length toga of her own. When she had first appeared at the top of the steps as they had left their home, Harry had—for a moment—been sure that Aphrodite herself had appeared to bless him. The flowing white of the robe she wore had practically glowed against the smooth expanse of tanned skin that it left bare, and the artfully conjured jewels in Hermione’s upswept hair had sparkled. 

“Who are you?” he had asked, breathless. 

“Hermione,” she had answered, her mouth turned upward at the corners. 

“No I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” she had said. “I’m Hermione, daughter of Helen of Troy and Menelaus.” And then she had smirked. Merlin, she’d looked perfect. A vision in white that he had instantly imagined caressing, disrobing, and ultimately whispering a litany of very filthy words to as he turned her around and—

Harry was distracted from the memory as a gaggle of children darted past them, their costumes brushing against him as they swarmed up the steps of the cottage, pillow cases and plastic jackolantern’s at the ready. 

“Chocolate?”

He looked back up at her as Delphi reached him and wrapped an arm around his leg. Hermione held out a small piece of candy in a colorful wrapper, offering it to him. 

He shook his head. “No thanks. Are we nearly done? I think my toes are beyond saving now, if frostbite was what you were waiting on.” 

“Not done,” piped Delphi, who was scowling up at him now, her expression thunderous. Harry sighed. 

“I think you’ve been overruled.” Hermione’s voice was mild but definitely mirthful. 

“Is this how its always going to be?” asked Harry. “You girls ganging up on me?” 

Hermione leaned in and upward, dropping a quick kiss on the tip of his nose. “Only if you’re very lucky.” 

They went on their way after that, and had stopped at several more houses before Harry realized where they were. Across the street, he could see Bathilda Bagshot’s old home, well kept now that there was a new family in residence, which meant that just there… his gaze landed on the ruin of his family’s cottage and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. 

He felt a hand, warm and firm, entwine itself in his, giving a reassuring squeeze as the warmth seemed to extend out and up his arm before enveloping his whole body. 

“Better?” Hermione asked. 

Harry nodded, looking down at her and giving her a smile. 

“Much. I didn’t know you could do that wandlessly.” 

She shrugged. 

“Are you okay? I know historically tonight has never been—”

“I’m fine,” Harry interrupted, watching as Delphi made her way up yet another set of steps, determined to reach the doorbell and claim her prize. 

“Alright,” said Hermione, her voice quiet. 

Harry sighed heavily and looked back at her. 

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s hard for me to— you know—talk about this sort of thing. I appreciate you asking.” 

Merlin, acknowledging his pain (something his mind healer had touted as ‘essential to healing and connection’) was awkward as hell. But Hermione deserved to not be shut out. She was his best friend. She was going to be his bloody wife. The least he could do was be honest with her. 

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she said, “if you don’t want to.” 

“I  _ don’t _ want to,” responded Harry vehemently. “But I  _ should _ . It… helps. Sometimes.” 

“This time?” Hermione asked, her tone still miraculously neutral. 

This time it was Harry’s turn to shrug. 

“I don’t know. Maybe?” 

“Daddy! Lolly!” Delphi ran back to them, holding out the brightly colored sweet and waving it about as if it were a wand. 

“Brilliant,” he praised, and they made their way to the next house. One house closer to the cottage where he had been orphaned. 

“Are you ready to go home?” Hermione asked. 

Harry could feel the urge to take her up on her offer growing. He wanted to dart away, to run and not stop until he could hide himself in his office and drink a solid cupful of firewhisky to forget the feeling of awful anxiety that was threatening to overtake him. 

Instead, he shook his head. 

“Delphi’s having far too much fun to cut short,” he said. “Besides, it’s just an old house. Can’t be worse than the last time we saw it.” He forced a smile. 

“Considering the last time we were on the run and about to be devoured by a giant snake, that’s hardly reassuring,” Hermione quipped. 

Harry laughed, some of the tension melting away as he held his hand out for Delphi to take again as they moved to the next cottage. 

“I did enjoy the grafiti though,” Harry said, as Delphi once again toddled up the short steps and arched up on the tips of her toes to ring the bell. “It was encouraging. I wonder what it will have to say this time. Now that the war is won.” 

“Oh Harry,” Hermione said, her voice pitched unnaturally high in imitation of some unknown and completely hypothetical witch. “You’re such a stud. Leave Granger and come find me! I’ll make you see stars!” 

Harry laughed and glanced back to check that Delphi was still safe. Seeing that she was happily rifling through a bowl full of sweets, a determined expression on her face, Harry turned back to Hermione. 

“They’d have a hell of a time convincing me to leave  _ you _ ,” he said, keeping his voice low so that only she could hear him. “Now that I’ve seen exactly what the prim and proper Miss Hermione Granger is capable of, I’m not sure the stars would be much of an incentive at all.”

She blushed and Harry smirked. 

“Daddy! Lolly!” Harry took a short step away from Hermione and gave Delphi a thumbs up. 

“You’re wicked,” Hermione said, voice deliciously strained. 

Harry chuckled in response and led Delphi on to the next stop, leaving Hermione to watch him strut away. She had been the one to dress him in the shoulder exposing costume—he only hoped that meant she would be as affected by the sight of him as he was of her. 

Once Hermione had caught up to them, the blush had bloomed in full force. She really did look like Aphrodite now.

“Well, if you’re well enough to flirt, I’ll stop pestering you.” 

“What if I was enjoying your nagging?” 

Hermione arched a brow. 

“I don’t nag. I  _ remind _ .”

“Whatever you do, you do it looking very attractive.” 

Hermione swatted him playfully on the arm. 

“Stop it, you,” she said, but her eyes were sparkling and Harry could tell that she was enjoying their banter. 

“Maybe later I can put my mouth to better use,” he said. 

This time the blow stung a little on his bicep, and he took a step out of reach. 

“Careful,” he laughed, “Delphi will get the wrong idea.” 

“Which idea would that be?” Hermione asked, her voice saccharine sweet. “That her father doesn’t have a sense of self preservation or propriety?” 

God he enjoyed this. The back and forth that never failed to arouse his intellect along with his body. It was a small wonder he wasn’t already beginning to pitch a bloody tent beneath his toga. 

A sharp gust of cold wind rushed over him, and Harry realized at once that the Warming Charm Hermione had extended to him had been cancelled. He looked up to see Hermione grinning. 

“Vindictive, you are,” said Harry, who no longer had to worry about much of anything happening beneath his toga. Still, Hermione was beautiful and whip smart, and he loved her to an unreasonable degree. He probably wouldn’t have cared had she vanished his costume all together and left him bare in the middle of town, not if she smiled at him like that. 

“Come along, Delphi Darling,” Hermione said, taking his daughter’s hand to help her down the last few steps of the stoop she had just raided for candy. “Would you like to see where Daddy used to live when he was small?” 

He watched as the two of them approached the looming ruin ahead, a reminder of everything he had lost and of the event that had sent him to the Dursley’s as a baby. Everything he had realized he was still struggling to overcome had begun here… in some ways, it was more painful seeing it now as a father than it had been when he was on the run and fighting a war. Still, when all was said, it was still just an old house, covered in ivy and surrounded by rubble.

As Hermione approached the gate, Harry watched Delphi run ahead, nearly crashing into the fence and steadying herself with both hands against the wood. 

“Careful,” said Harry, as the sign with its gold lettering sprang from the ground and rose up in front of Hermione, who smiled upon seeing it and called back to him. 

“It’s all still there, the writing from before.” 

For some reason, this made him feel better, and he strode to stand beside Hermione, staring up at the moonlit house. He closed his eyes for a moment and felt Delphi tug at the hem of his clothes. She said something he couldn’t quite understand and then let go. Hermione murmured for the girl not to wander, and nestled her head against Harry’s shoulder. They stood like that for several seconds—half a minute perhaps. Harry envisioned a life in that cottage, wondering what it would have been like to grow up loved by someone who was still living, taken care of and fed regularly. He imagined himself in the now decimated room on the right hand side of the top floor. Would he have transformed it through the years, papering the walls with Quidditch posters? Would he have been prepared when Voldemort had returned… or would Voldemort have been defeated the first go round? 

When he opened his eyes, Hermione was staring up at him, a sad smile at the corner of her mouth. 

“You’re going to have it all,” she said, and it sounded to him like a promise. 

And then he was envisioning another life, built on the ruins in front of him and those behind him. Hermione by his side, Delphi his to love and cherish and give all the things he had been denied. A home that would never go dark or end up in pieces on the ground. More children to fill it, perhaps…

“Daddy!” 

Harry and Hermione looked up at the sound of Delphi’s voice. It was tinged with an emotion he recognized but rarely had cause to hear from her anymore. Searching in the dark, his gaze fell on her quickly. She stood in her gold dress at the end of the gate, barely seven or eight yards from them. The coronet on her head gleamed in the starlight and the slender horn Hermione had given her seemed to glow in the darkness. 

And then, before he had even a moment to think or react, a dark, hooded figure moved directly behind her, leaning down and wrapping itself around the girl. 

Fear. That had been fear in her voice. 

“Da—”

The figure and the girl disappeared together with a crack before Delphi could finish the word. 

  
  



	37. Chapter 37

4 Cerridwen Court, Godric’s Hollow

31 October 1999

Hermione sat in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a teacup that was almost too hot to touch. She didn’t care, the sting was good, it kept her focused on the pain rather than springing from her seat to interrupt the conversation she could hear happening in the next room. 

“—the fuck were you thinking, Potter—”

“She would have  _ died _ if I hadn’t!” 

“You can’t just run about doing whatever you like because you think you’re some sort of chosen—”

“Jesus Christ, Kings, are you listening to yourself? Has being Minister turned your heart to stone already?”

“You kidnapped a child!” Kingsley roared, and Hermione flinched in reaction. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, who sounded just as belligerent as he had before. “And you can be damn sure I’d do it again.” 

“Merlins Balls, boy.” 

“I’m not a boy.” 

“Like hell. You’re barely out of Hogwarts, and just as fucking rash and stupid as the rest of your peers. Granger was the only one who had any sense at all, and now I find she’s mixed up in some sort of plot to—”

“You keep Hermione out of this,” Harry demanded. 

“If you didn’t want her involved, you shouldn’t have had her help you steal a bloody child,” Kingsley thundered.

“What was I supposed to do!?” 

Kingsley scoffed. “It never occured to you to ask a grown up for help, Potter? The entire ministry would have been at your disposal to—”

“To what,” asked Harry, his tone icy as he interrupted Kingsley yet again. “To neutralize the threat posed by a baby? To make her notorious before she could walk?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I would never have allowed that.” 

“Frankly, Kings, I’m not sure  _ what _ you would have allowed. You’re a minister at the start of his term, and I couldn’t take the chance. Do you know what a fucking mess my life was before the end of the war? Not just because of the fact that the Wizarding World abandoned me to abusive muggles—”

“The world has changed, Harry.”

Harry continued as if Kingsley hadn’t spoken. “But because no one, not my classmates or a single teacher, could forget that I was Harry bloody Potter. No one let me forget for even a moment that I was famous because my parents died, because I had lived when I shouldn’t. Because of Voldemort. Hermione and the Weasleys were the only ones who ever saw me as I was instead of as some destined savior.” 

“Be reasonable,” said Kingsley, but Harry continued. 

“Do you think I could have stood by and let another life be ruined by Voldemort that way? If people knew the truth, half of the population would fear her and the other half would want to make her some sort of Dark Lord take two. I wasn’t just going to stand by and let you lot do that to her!” 

“So you decided to steal her and lie to everyone!?” 

“Minister,” Hermione recognized Ron’s voice for the first time since the shouting had begun. “The longer we sit here pointing fingers, the longer Delphi’s in danger. Frankly, we haven’t got time for this.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. 

“Shut up,” Ron snapped back. “Kingsley’s right—”

“ _ What? _ ” 

“What you did was impulsive and stupid, and it’s a miracle it worked out the way it did—don’t look like that. I’m not saying you shouldn’t have done it, but you did the opposite of the logical thing. When it comes down to it, you stole her, Harry. You kidnapped a baby, and the fact she’s your daughter now, doesn’t change how it happened.”

“You’re damn lucky magical adoptions are binding,” Kingsley hissed, “or I’d have the girl in care so fast your head would spin.”

Hermione stood abruptly, drawing her wand and sending the tea cup she had been holding across the table, hot liquid spilling out onto the wooden surface. She had nearly reached the entryway to the other room when she heard Ron speak, low and threatening. 

“Don’t you  _ ever  _ threaten that again,” he said. 

Hermione reached the archway and looked through into the formal dining room. She could see Kingsley standing against the wall, a scowl on his face as Ron jabbed his own wand into the Minister’s chest while simultaneous pushing Harry away with his opposite hand. 

Kingsley was mutinously silent for several seconds more before he nodded. 

“Now,” said Ron, “what the hell are you going to do to help us? I didn’t bring you here to dress Harry down.”

“Why did you bring him?” asked Harry, who was finally retreating to the other side of the room. “We should be out looking for her, not sitting here arguing with some politician who cares more about his career than—”

“Harry,” Hermione cut in, lowering her wand and crossing the room to stand beside him. “We can’t do this on our own.” 

Harry met her gaze, and she could see the pain, anger, and fear there. After a moment he nodded and turned, crossing his arms over his chest and facing the wall to compose himself. Hermione wished for a moment that she could do the same, but right now she needed to keep her wits about her. There was no time to give in to her emotions and let the panic she had felt by the old Potter Cottage over-take her again. 

“Minister?” Hermione said at last, turning to face Kingsley. 

The man sighed, raising his hands and covering his face for a moment before lowering them and straightening his spine. 

“Alright, Weasley,” he said. “You’ve my permission to lead the hunt. Take as many Aurors as you need. As of this moment, finding Delphini Potter is priority number one.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Ron. As he turned to face Hermione, she could see the determination in his eyes and in the set of his jaw. She knew two things in that moment: that he would do everything in his power to bring her girl back, and that no matter the awkwardness of their past, she loved him fiercely and would forever. 

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes glistening with tears. Ron pulled her in for a quick hug and whispered in her ear. 

“We’ll find her. I promise.” 

“I’ll come,” said Harry at once. 

“No!” barked Kingsley. “You’re not to be involved with the investigation, Potter. You’re a  _ parent  _ right now, not an Auror. I can’t afford you on the job in this state.” And then his voice softened slightly as he spoke again. “Let us work.” 

Harry seemed to struggle within himself for a moment before nodding once and turning to face the wall. 

Both Ron and Kingsley left after that and Hermione was left alone with Harry, who still stood ramrod straight against the wall. She let her gaze travel from him to the long dining table which sat empty save for a crumpled note near the edge. 

It had been a ransom note this time, short and to the point. She reached for it and smoothed it out over the top of the table, leaning down to read it once again. 

THE CONTENTS OF YOUR VAULT

FOR HER LIFE

ILL KNOW IF YOU DONT EMPTY IT

A tear splashed on the surface of the paper, and Hermione wiped at her eyes furiously. She didn’t have time to cry. She needed to have her wits about her. 

She crumpled the note again and flung it across the room. 

  
  
  
  


Ten minutes after the Aurors had descended on Cerridwen Court and begun to branch out over Godric’s Hollow searching for any clues that may exist, the rest of the Weasleys had arrived with the Grangers in tow. Arthur, Bill, George, Percy, and Angelina had all joined Ron and the other Aurors in their search, but Molly and Helen had swept into the kitchen like twin forces of nature, conjuring pie and steaming vegetables out of the thinning contents of their refrigerator and sitting them all down to eat with the tone of matriarchs who would not be crossed. 

Hermione and Harry sat side by side, flanked by Fleur and Frank Granger. Across the table, Andromeda sat with Teddy on her lap, next to Helen, and beside her was Molly who ordered them all to “eat up,” and then dug into her own meal. They all ate in silence for several minutes before Harry set his fork down, his plate barely touched. 

“Thank you,” he said. “I think I’m going to… go lie down.” He sounded unsure of himself and looked even more confused. Hermione ached to soothe him. 

“Let me come with you,” she said, moving to stand with him, but he shook his head. 

“I think— can I be alone for a bit? Would that be okay?” 

Hermione bit her lip and nodded. 

“Yes, of course,” she said, though his request stung more than she expected. She let him go without another word and sat quietly, worrying her lower lip until Andromeda spoke. 

“I can’t imagine what he must be feeling,” she said. “Or you, Hermione. Is there anything I can do now?” 

“You must tell us if there is,” Fleur cut in. She was cradling a sleeping Victoire in her arms.

“I—” She couldn’t think. The only thing she wanted now was to have her daughter safe in her arms, and aside from that all thoughts were lackluster and confused in her mind. 

“Leave her be,” ordered Molly. “Let her eat.” 

The other two women fell silent, returning to their own plates. Hermione gave Molly a grateful look, and the older woman nodded. There was silence for a another several minutes before Helen Granger spoke up, her voice forcefully cheery. 

“Tell me, Molly, has there been any news about George and Angelina since your last letter?”

Molly smiled. “No, not yet. I’m certain I’m right though. There was a suspiciously box shaped lump in his jumper the other day.”

“You should not press him so,” Fleur interrupted her accented voice thick with exasperation. “I’m sure George will tell you when he is ready.” 

Molly harrumphed and turned back to Helen. 

“Is he going to propose, then?” asked Andromeda. Teddy leaned forward as she was distracted, snatching a fistfull of vegetables off of her plate and then dumping them into the ground. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Molly said, her tone light and lofty. 

“I would have thought Ginny before George,” Andromeda continued, not noticing the darkening expression on Molly’s face. “The way she and her young man carry on when they’re together.” 

“Ah. No. Actually, they’re no longer together.” 

Fleur’s eyes were trained on her plate again, and Hermione noticed the tension in the room rising. 

“Is that why she isn’t here?” Hermione asked. “Did Theo jilt her?” 

“She left  _ him _ ,” said Molly, and she looked thunderous as she spoke. “And a damn good thing.” 

“Did something—” Hermione began, but Molly shook her head and stood up. 

“Never you mind,” she said. “You don’t need to worry about Ginny. She’ll be alright. Now, you’ll have to tell me where these dishes go. I haven’t cleaned in your kitchen before.” 

Hermione did as she was asked and then begged off, saying she had a headache and making her way out of the room and up the stairs to the second floor, where she knew several aurors were still looking around the nursery. 

“Excuse me,” she said, catching their attention. “Do you know where Ron Weasley is?” 

“Yes, ma’am. Did you need to speak with him?” answered one of the group, his Irish accent thick. 

She nodded.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

  
  


Ron found her in the back garden when he arrived back at the house. She was sitting with her back against a tall tree and a notebook over her knees, writing furiously with muggle pen. Merlin she looked frantic. One of her lips was bleeding from where she had bit it too roughly, and her hair, which had been upswept when he had arrived and studded with crystals, was now in haphazard waves around her shoulders, tangled by the wind. 

“Hermione?”

She looked up at the sound of his voice, startled. 

“O’Brien said you wanted a word.”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes! Look. Have you got that list I asked you for?” 

“The list?” he asked, confused. 

Her eyes narrowed. “The one I asked about after the first blackmail note. You compiled it, didn’t you?” 

“Oh, that list. Yeah. It’s not on me, but yeah.”

“I need it,” Hermione said at once. 

Ron sighed. He’d been afraid of this. However bad having Harry on the case might have been, he knew Hermione would be ten times more controlling, and just as emotionally compromised.

“I can’t do that.” 

“Like hell you can’t,” she said, standing more quickly than he’d been expecting and advancing on him. “That’s my  _ daughter _ out there, and I’m going to do everything I possibly can to find her. Are you going to stand there like a useless wretch and make me go through you, or are you going to help me, Ronald Weasley?”

She looked wild in her anger, and for a moment Ron thought she looked very much like his own mother, when she had fought in the Battle at Hogwarts. 

“The list is being examined now,” he said. “At the Ministry. We’ve got four of our best Aurors going over it with a fine toothed comb, and a couple more Unspeakables to boot. I promise, Hermione, we’re narrowing down the suspects.” 

“Good for you,” she snapped. “But I’m not interested in narrowing down anything. I want to find Delphi.”

“We all want to find—”

“Tell me, Ron,” Hermione interrupted. “Is Ginny on your list?” 

“Excuse me?” She was mental, that was the only explanation. Her grief and heartache were making her lose her damn mind. 

“Is. Your sister. On. That. List?”

“You need to calm down, Hermione. The more time I spend here talking to you, the less time I have to actually—”

“Right,” she interrupted again, sounding brusk now, and she turned to grab her notebook off of the ground and then brushed past him toward the side gate. “Off you pop then.”

“Hermione!” he called, shaking off his stunned surprise and moving to follow her. As soon as she’d gone through the gate, however, she disapparated. Ron swore. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Malfoy Manor

Narcissa was cold. She was always cold these days. The big, drafty house that had once been her pride and her joy was less crowning glory now, and more dank prison. She supposed it was her own fault, having let the place go rather than spend too much time dwelling on it. She had meant to cleanse the space ritually after the end of the war, but when Lucius had been sent to Azkaban, she hadn’t had the heart. Now, every time she tried, she was petrified by one memory or another that popped out of the woodwork to terrify her. Morganna, the place was a house of horrors more than a home now, despite its sumptuous decorations and the house elves who kept it spotless. 

She shivered, turning over in her large bed and staring out of the open window. She could see stars in the sky, and the last quarter moon beginning to rise. Was it already so late? She sat up, swinging her feet out of the bed and into a pair of silk slippers waiting on the floor. She couldn’t shake the sense that something was wrong, that she had forgotten something important. No wonder she couldn’t sleep. 

A small pop sounded in the corner of her room, the familiar sound of a house elf appearing. 

“Excusing me, Mistress.”

“What is it Tottsy?” Narcissa turned to face the elf, arching one brow delicately in question. 

“The Granger girl is come. She is wanting to speak, Mistress. She is not leaving even when Tottsy is telling her no.” 

“I’ll come down, Tottsy, thank you.” 

The house elf bowed and disapparated once more, leaving Narcissa alone to dress, as was her custom. It was the work of only a few minutes to don one of her robes and charm her hair up into its usual twist, and when she was done, Narcissa descended, bypassing the master’s chambers where Lucius slept, and made her way down two flights of stairs to the ground floor. 

Granger stood in the drawing room beside a window. She was looking out onto the lawn, her back perfectly straight as she seemed lost in thought. Narcissa glanced from the girl to the rug at her feet. There was still a stain where her blood had fallen after Bellatrix had taken her blade to the Muggleborn. Narcissa had meant to replace the carpet all together but… it was a testament to her shame that she had been unable to part with. 

“I’m surprised you chose to wait here,” said Narcissa at last, breaking the silence. 

Granger didn’t answer for several seconds, but when she did, she turned her whole body to face Narcissa. 

“Did you take Delphi?” Her words were sharp in the night air, and Narcissa drew in a breath.

“Is she missing?” 

“Answer my question, Narcissa.” 

“Naturally, we’re your first stop afterward. Things never change, do they?”

“You’re not, actually. Answer my damn question.”

“No. I haven’t seen her outside of the newspapers since just after the end of the war.” 

Granger let out a sigh. She sounded relieved. 

“What has happened?” 

The girl sank onto one of the armchairs near the window and buried her face in her hand for a moment before meeting Narcissa’s gaze. 

“She’s been taken. The Aurors are out in force, looking for her. It wouldn’t surprise me if they showed up here eventually.” 

Narcissa’s heart began to race. 

“Is that a threat?” 

The Granger girl’s chuckle was hollow. 

“No. I need your help, Mrs Malfoy.”

Narcissa’s brows arched up in surprise. 

“My help? What help could I possibly give that the Ministry in its infinite wisdom cannot?” 

“Tell me about the night Delphi was born,” she demanded. She was sitting up straight again, holding a little booklet that Narcissa hadn’t noticed which was open on her lap. 

“Excuse me?”

Granger looked tired, and she rubbed her temple with one hand before looking down at her notebook and then up at Narcissa. 

“I’ve been going over it in my head for an hour now. You told Harry no one knew about who Delphi’s father was except for you, your husband, and Rodolphus.” She seemed to be reading off of a list that she had made. “But if you didn’t take her, someone else  _ must _ have known. All of the Lestranges are dead, and Thorfinn Rowle is in prison, so even if Euphemia told him, he couldn’t have done it. Euphemia herself can’t remember what she did for an entire year, so she’s not the culprit either.” She lowered the booklet, training her gaze on Narcissa, who still stood at the edge of the carpet on the other side of the room. “That means we’re missing something.”

“The Dark Lord was specific about who should know,” said Narcissa. “He would have killed anyone who broke his trust, and believe me when I say he would have known.” 

“Well,” said Hermione, “If you lot were too cowardly to tell anyone—” Narcissa’s nostrils flared. “Then someone else must have discovered the secret for themselves.” 

“Impossible.” Narcissa dismissed. “Delphini never left the manor, and the Dark Lord had no interest in her. He saw her once on his own, after she was born, and then he left her to the house elves. No one would have suspected.” 

“Not even the elves?” Hermione asked, her head tilting to the side now as if she were curious. The question took Narcissa aback. Would the house elves have known? There were only four in residence at the manor, and Tottsy was one of only two in the house. Picksy was a kitchen elf, which left only—

“Tottsy!” Narcissa’s voice was sharp in the dim room. 

“Mistress?” 

The house elf appeared behind her, and she whirled to face the creature. 

“Tell me what you know of Delphini Lestrange.” 

“Potter,” Granger corrected. 

Tottsy bowed slightly as she began to speak. “Miss Delphini is daughter of Mr Potter and Granger Girl.”

“Before that,” said Narcissa impatiently. 

Tottsy paused for a moment before speaking again. 

“Miss Delphini is Missy Bella’s baby.” 

“Who was her father?” Granger asked. Tottsy gave Narcissa a questioning glance. 

“Answer her,” the blonde demanded. 

“The Dark Lord,” Tottsy whispered. 

“There, you see?” Granger said. “At least one person discovered the truth.” 

“Tottsy, have you told anyone what you suspect?!” Narcissa knew her voice was overly sharp, but if the house elf had told anyone...

“No, Mistress. Tottsy keeps the secrets of the house of Malfoy.” The little house elf was bowing low now, so low that her ears nearly touched the floor. 

“I forbid you from ever speaking the truth of Delphini Potter’s birth again. To anyone, even myself. Is that understood?” 

“Yes, Mistress.” 

“You are dismissed.” 

“Thank you, Tottsy,” said Granger as the house elf popped out of view

“Merlin,” swore Narcissa, as she crossed to sit in front of Granger on a slightly faded floral settee. 

“Who else might you have over-looked, Narcissa? Are all the help house elves?” Granger’s notebook was open again, and she held a Muggle pen at the ready. 

“Yes, of course they are,” Narcissa snapped. 

“Even on the night Delphi was born?” the girl pressed. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” answered Narcissa through gritted teeth. 

Granger sighed. “Okay, take me through the night. What happened?” 

Impudent, outrageous girl. 

“A child was born.” 

“Very clever.” 

“I don’t know what you expect me to say. My sister felt the pains early in the morning. They lasted for hours, and she hid herself up stairs in her room. The Dark Lord got word and summoned Lucius and Rodolphus to his side, there to await the birth of his heir. I helped her through the pains until it was time to send for the midwife. She was summoned and—”

“The midwife?” Granger interrupted. “What did she know?” 

“Nothing. That she had been called to attend the Dark Lord’s Lieutenant.” 

“So, she knew that Voldemort”—Narcissa flinched at the name—“was here.” 

“Everyone even remotely close to the inner circle knew.” 

“What happened next?” 

Narcissa sighed and leaned back in her seat, covering her eyes with one hand. “Shouting, groaning, blood and water. The usual aspects of birth…not that you would be familiar with them.” 

“No,” Granger agreed, “I wouldn’t be. Did anyone else come into the room?” 

“No.” 

“Did Voldemort—”

“Circe, no. He sent Lucius with a message.” 

Granger grew still. “What did he say?” 

“That she belonged to him, or some nonsense.” Narcissa remembered being perturbed at the message herself. Her sister had been laboring for hours, in pain and desperation, and the Dark Lord had not had the decency to come himself to see her. She had known that his views were more antiquated, but she had thought he might have at least wanted to see for himself whether the child was male or female. 

“Did the midwife hear?” 

“What?” Narcissa snapped. “No. She couldn’t have.” 

“Not even when you relayed the message to Bellatrix?” 

“No, absolutely...” She paused, thinking. 

“Ah,” said Granger. “She could have.” 

“Yes.” Narcissa swallowed. How much had the woman heard before…

“Might she have suspected?” 

Narcissa shrugged. “It hardly matters. She lived less than a week after the birth. The Dark Lord ordered her dead to protect his secret.” 

“And in that week, who might she have told?” Granger was leaning forward now, her elbows on her knees and her brow furrowed. 

_ No one, if she knew what was in her own best interest _ , Narcissa thought. 

“I can’t imagine she would have gone about bandying her suspicions. She was from a good family and would have known better.” 

“When you say a ‘good family’ do you mean they were Death Eaters?” There was no venom in the girls voice, which surprised Narcissa, only an intense curiosity and determination. 

“Yes,” Narcissa whispered. 

“Which one?”

“She would not have told anyone,” Narcissa repeated. 

Granger sighed. 

“Look, Narcissa. I don’t like you. I think you’re vicious and vain and too wrapped up in your own existence to give a damn about me… but Delphi,  _ my daughter _ , is your niece. She’s your blood, and I know blood means something to you. You fought a war because mine wasn’t good enough. So please, I’m begging you, find it in your properly cold heart to help me find her. Tell me who the midwife was.” 

Narcissa glared at the girl… the young woman. She was a little older than Narcissa had been when she had married Lucius, and Narcissa recognized the same sort of fire and determination that she herself had held for different ideals once. And above all, love. Narcissa Malfoy knew what it was to love a child so much she would risk everything for them, and there in Hermione Granger’s eyes, Narcissa saw a mirror. 

“Her name was Cartesia,” Narcissa began. “She was several years ahead of me at school. She married a Rosier but he was killed in the first war.” 

“And before she married?” Granger asked. 

Narcissa sighed and told the young woman everything she knew. 

  
  



	38. Chapter 38

4 Cerridwen Court, Godric’s Hollow

1 November 1999, 1:00am

Harry’s first real memory was of Petunia telling him not to call her mummy. It had confused him because Dudley had called her that, and she called  _ herself _ that, but he was supposed to call her Aunt Petunia. 

“You don’t have a mummy,” she had told him. “She’s dead.”

He hadn’t understood. He’d asked her when his mummy would be done being dead. 

“Never,” Petunia had huffed, as if answering his question were an inconvenience. “She’s never coming back. You’ll never, ever have a mummy again.” 

It was the first time he had been aware of his loss and had felt that sharp pang which told him he was not complete, and now, as he descended the stairs and made his way toward the kitchen, the same sensation weighed him down like a millstone about his neck. 

“Harry, there you are. Would you like some tea, dear?” 

The voice of Helen Granger rang across the kitchen as he entered the room. She was standing at the stove over a steaming kettle and several empty cups. It was Hermione’s china, the ones she had told him once belonged to her grandmother and that she used only when she needed to destress. 

“Yes, please,” Harry answered, his voice hoarse. He had done a great deal of shouting that night, and he could feel it taking its toll. “Where’s Hermione?” 

Helen looked across the room, locking eyes with her husband before focusing back on the teacups. “She said she would be back before long. Why don’t you sit down and I’ll have this ready for you in a moment.” 

“Over here, Harry,” called Molly Weasley, who was already nursing a cup of tea beside Andromeda and Fleur, both of which still held sleeping children on their laps. Harry took the seat between Molly and Frank and looked down at his hands. Empty. 

“Ron was here a moment ago,” said Andromeda. “He said to tell you they’re doing everything they can.” 

Harry swallowed and nodded. “Thanks.” 

“Is there anyone else you would like us to contact, Harry?” Fleur spoke softly from the other side of the room. “I understand that Hermione has an interest in the  _ Daily Prophet _ ? Perhaps if we contact them they might—” 

“No,” Harry cut in. “No, I don’t want this in the paper. No one needs to know that— I mean, I don’t want others getting the same idea when she...when she’s home.” 

“Of course,” Fleur soothed. 

There was silence again, thick and awkward until at last Harry looked up and spoke. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Sorry to have dragged you all out of bed only to sit here like this. I don’t know what to say, or what to do.” 

“Oh, you hush,” Molly said, bustling up and crossing to the counter. There, she picked up a tray of what looked like fresh pumpkin pasties. When she turned back to face him, there was a glint in her eye. “This is what family does, Harry. We come, and we sit with you when there are no words. We cook, and we raise our wands, and we do everything we can think of. We’re not here to be entertained, love. We’re here to help.” With that, she flicked her wand and sent the tray floating to the center of the table where it settled soundlessly. 

“Well said, Molly,” Frank chimed, and Harry felt the older man’s hand settle on his shoulder and give it a light squeeze. “We’re here to help, son.” 

There was a lump in Harry’s throat that made it difficult for him to speak now, but when he had managed to swallow it down, he said “Thank you,” and took one of the pumpkin pasties. 

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

Later, Harry found himself alone in the library. It had only been finished the week before, and Hermione had spent much of the time since nestled in one of the bay windows with a book and a cup of tea. Harry could see a half drunk cup even now, set precariously on top of an inkwell. He crossed the room to it, lifted it up, and threw it across the room. It shattered with a satisfying crash, exploding against the side of a tall bookcase and drenching a row of Hermione’s prized textbooks in day old sugary tea. He didn’t give a single damn. 

Where was she, anyhow? When he had asked after her before, her parents had exchanged looks and made some excuse. What was she  _ doing _ ? Was  _ she  _ being allowed to help in the search for Delphi when he was not? Was she hiding it from him to spare his feelings? 

Growling, Harry crossed to the opposite side of the room where Hermione kept her more questionable tomes on a high shelf, warded to keep Delphi out. He spotted several familiar texts that Hermione had consulted during the war, and beside them the new books she had acquired ‘for research purposes’ before filing them on the shelf behind a fairly strong Notice Me Not Charm. He grabbed the first one he could force himself to look at and drew it down before flipping it open. The pages were thin and worn, and he scanned them desperately for a few minutes before tossing the book behind him and grabbing another. 

He went through several books like that until he found one with a chapter title that looked more promising.  _ Ensuring Purity Through Blood Bonds _ , it read. 

Harry muttered aloud as he scanned the chapter, slowing only when he came to the spells and curses written within. Most of them were repulsive and not at all what he was looking for. There was a ritual which would create a marital bond without the consent of either party, compelling them to engage in intimacy until they were either willing participants, or the caster died. Harry assumed this sort of curse had been used to ensure that planned betrothals bore fruit. Another curse literally made witches and wizards allergic to non-magical beings, and there was a handwritten note above the description which read “ _ For Orion.”  _

He forced himself to read through every nasty abuse of magic until finally, Harry came to a spell that made him pause. 

_ For wandering children _ , the description read. Harry continued.  _ Speak the words o’er like flesh, and the wandering child shall feel the same till they return and pureness claim.  _

Shivering, Harry turned the page. He didn’t want to know any more. Whatever it did, he was certain it couldn’t help him find Delphi. 

There was a tap at the library door behind him, and Harry snapped the book shut instinctively, putting his arms behind him to hold it out of sight. 

“Who is it?” 

One of the double doors swung inward and a head of light brown hair came around the corner. 

“Harry?” It was Andromeda, and as she entered the room, the few streaks of silver in her hair glinted beneath the chandelier. “I just came to tell you Teddy and I are going. He’s woken up and is begging for his crib.” 

“Okay,” said Harry, nodding as he bit his lower lip. The book in his hand felt heavy and hot. 

Andromeda took another step toward him, her head tilted just slightly to one side and her brow furrowed. “I wanted to—” she hesitated, and her voice sounded cautious. 

“Everything alright?”asked Harry. 

The woman halted her approach, frowning slightly. 

“Harry, is there anything I should know about Delphi?” 

His knuckles strained behind him at the force with which he clenched the book in his grasp. “What do you mean?” 

Andromeda, who was usually a self assured force of nature, raised a hand to her brow and lowered it quickly. “It’s only that… She looks very familiar.” Apparently seeing the panicked look on Harry’s face, she quickly spoke again. “I wouldn’t ask except— Perhaps others have noticed as well?” Her voice trailed off for several seconds before she cleared her throat. “You haven’t seen the Malfoys lately, have you Harry?”

“Andromeda,” Harry said, his voice carefully controlled. “I’m not sure what you—”

“Please, Harry,” the woman raised one hand toward him, cutting him off before he could continue. “I promise you I will never mention this conversation again. I’ll swear it over Nymphadora’s grave if you require it… but under the circumstances, I would be a very poor friend indeed if I didn’t come to you with my suspicions.” 

Harry gritted his teeth. “Is it so obvious?” 

Andromeda gave a sad little smile and shook her head. “Only if someone were intimately familiar with the original, and had memories of her as a child. Fortunately for you, my sisters and I were sheltered children… but if Narcissa has seen—”

“I’ve spoken with Narcissa.” 

“Well then,” said Andromeda, looking relieved. “That’s a relief.” She turned to go, and Harry watched in disbelief. 

“Don’t you want to know more?” he asked, just as she reached the door again. The woman paused, her hand on the handle of the door as she looked back at him. 

“Do you want to tell me?”

Harry laughed humorlessly, turning as he did so to sit in the nearest chair. He set the book he had been holding on the end table positioned nearby. “Not particularly.” 

“Well then, we’ll leave it there.” 

“Really?” 

“Harry,” Andromeda said, and she sounded exasperated now, “you are Teddy’s godfather, and that makes you family. That makes  _ Delphi _ family. I don’t need anything more than that. No one else does either.”

“But she’s your sister’s—” 

“Hush!” The woman interrupted. “That girl is your daughter. I’m well versed in Magical adoptions, boy, and where they are concerned, blood means  _ nothing _ . Delphi may have once been something else to me than she is now, but that life is over, and she’s better for it. The Black Family, proud as I am of my heritage, was poison. She’s well shot of it. Not to mention the Lestranges. Heavens, they were more than a few Sickles short of a Galleon. No. It’s better this way, and you needn’t give me any more explanations.” 

Harry sighed, unsure whether he was more relieved that Andromeda was so insistent that he keep further information to himself, or that she didn’t suspect the most crucial secret of Delphi’s birth. 

“Thank you,” he forced himself to say at last. Andromeda nodded once and gave him a supportive smile. 

“They’ll find her soon,” she assured him. “I can feel it. If you need anything at all, Molly is keeping vigil in the kitchen, and Helen and Frank are resting in the guest room.” Then she left, leaving only a hint of her usual floral scent, and fresh worries for Harry behind. 

He had been a fool not to expect that Andromeda would notice the resemblance. How often had he—who had only ever known Bellatrix Lestrange as a waxy, deranged figure—noted the resemblance between her and his daughter? Of course the woman’s sister would have noticed. Her  _ older _ sister, who would have seen the woman at Delphi’s age. How long had she suspected? Who else suspected the same? And if they did suspect, did they also know about Bellatrix’s ongoing affair with Voldemort? Suddenly, the list of suspects which he had been keeping in the back of his mind since the first blackmail letter had come, grew exponentially. If Delphi’s appearance were such a giveaway. Anyone could have taken a guess and tried to make money off of the suspicion; a suspicion which he had then confirmed by paying the first blasted installment. 

No, he reminded himself. Whoever had been blackmailing him, whoever had taken Delphi, had known not just about Bellatrix, but about Voldemort as well. Not just anyone would have suspected that. Not even the woman’s sister had guessed. But still, Andromeda’s suspicion told him that the story he had spun to explain Delphi’s presence in his life was as thin as paper and just waiting for any observant person with intimate knowledge of Bellatrix Lestrange to come along and tear it to shreds. Perhaps now, with Delphi so young, only the Black sisters would be able to see the resemblance, but what would happen as she grew? When she went to Hogwarts and was the same age as Bellatrix had been when she entered wider society, would the entire Wizarding World mark the resemblance and bring his secret out into the open? Was that to be his punishment for the abduction of a child? For loving her and trying his damndest to protect her from a world that he knew from experience had the power to destroy any semblance of normalcy he could ever give her? 

When Ron and the other Aurors found her—if they found her—would her return only be a short reprieve from the reality of her future? Had  _ he _ ruined her life by making her the daughter of one of the most famous faces in Wizarding Britain? By tying her to perhaps the only man so inextricably linked with Voldemort, that no one could speak of one without thinking of the other? Whether the world knew the secret of her birth or not, Lord Voldemort’s legacy would haunt her because it haunted  _ him _ . She would never be free of it, because Harry would never be free of it. If he had done the unselfish thing and found some other home for her, some other family to keep her and love her and make her their child… could she have lived the rest of her life safely and in anonymity?

He had ruined her. Ruined her chances at a normal life and put her in danger that she would never have had to worry about if it had been anyone but him to rescue her. She deserved more. She deserved better. 

Harry rubbed his temples as he leaned forward in his seat, a wave of nausea roiling up from the pit of his stomach before subsiding as he took a deep breath.

Delphi deserved better, but he was what she had now. A father so short sighted he might have condemned her to a life of notoriety. A man who couldn’t keep his own personal shit under wraps long enough to protect her when she needed protecting… but he would be damned if he’d let his shortcomings stand in the way of his making it up to her. 

0-0-0-0-0

4 Cerridwen Court, Godric’s Hollow

1 November 1999, 5:15am

Hermione apparated just outside the garden gate, staring up at their home in trepidation. She had done all that she could, and now, there was an even more daunting task ahead of her—telling Harry. She unlatched the gate and pushed it inward before stepping through. Two Aurors seemed to melt out of the darkness, their wands raised. 

“Identify yourself,” said one of them. Her voice was sharp and clear in the cold night air. 

Hermione lowered her hood and took a small step forward. “This is my house,” she said. “What happened to the other two who were here before? Griggs and O’Brien?”

“Your name, Miss?” asked the male Auror, wand still trained at her face. 

“Hermione Granger,” she said, feeling impatient now. “Let me pass.” 

“Hermione? Is that you?” 

She looked up at the sound of a familiar voice ahead and felt a wave of relief. 

“Molly. How’s Harry?” 

“Let her pass, you fools,” Molly Weasley said as she bustled forward, pushing her way past the two Aurors and wrapping an arm around Hermione’s shoulders. “He’s fine, dear. Locked himself in the library, but I can still hear him stomping around inside every now and then. Come inside from the cold.” 

The Aurors fell back into the shadows as Mrs Weasley dragged Hermione forward and into the house, taking off the younger woman’s traveling cloak and storing it in the nearest closet. “Are you hungry? I had Fleur bring me some supplies earlier and could whip up something in a trice.” 

“No,” Hermione protested, though she could feel pangs low in her belly. “I need to speak with Harry.” 

Molly made an noncommittal noise and pulled Hermione into the kitchen anyway, sitting her down on one of the stools at the island bar and setting a cup and saucer down in front of her. “Tea first,” she said at last, summoning the teapot and heating it with a jab of her wand before pouring into Hermione’s teacup. “Drink up. Your hands were ice when I felt them.” 

Sighing, Hermione did as she was told, relishing the warmth of the china between her hands and the aroma that wafted up to her nose. 

“Have my parents gone home?” she asked after the first sip. 

Molly shook her head. “No, they refused. They’re in the guest room now. They wanted to be woken when you returned, but I thought perhaps after you’d had a chance to settle.” 

“Let them sleep,” said Hermione. “At least until there’s news.”

Molly eyed her speculatively for a moment before asking, “Are you expecting news soon?” 

Hermione said nothing, only sipped her tea once more and then set it down on its saucer with a gentle clink. “I need to talk to Harry.” 

“Hmm. Well, like I said, he’s barricaded himself in with the books.” 

Hermione took that to mean that Molly would not stop her again, so she rose from her seat, giving the older woman a tight smile before turning to make her way toward the former office. 

The doors of the library Harry had gifted her were ornate and heavily warded. Luckily for her, she had taught Harry most of the wards in his arsenal, and the Auror level one he had used were simple enough for her to break with her knowledge of ancient runes. The arched double doors swung open within two minutes, and Hermione stepped into chaos. 

Someone had pulled nearly all of the books down off of the shelves and left them laying in haphazard stacks; she recognized several of the dark arts texts that she had collected to research, still open on every surface. A teacup lay shattered near one of the bookcases, and a desk had been overturned. The only thing missing was Harry, and as she let her gaze travel from the base of the spiral staircase to the top where it connected to a small landing and an open door, she knew where to find him. 

As she made her way up the steps, she could hear raised voices coming from the room beyond. She paused at the door, listening intently to get some idea of what she would be walking into. 

“You think I give a damn what you want, Potter? You’re foolhardy and reckless, just like your godfather.” Kingsley’s booming baritone sounded far away, and Hermione knew that it must be coming through the Floo. 

“I take that as a compliment,” Harry responded. 

“You shouldn’t. If I gave you the Malfoys you could put the entire operation in jeopardy. Your daughter could be lost because you’ve got a bone to pick with—” 

“Minister.” Hermione stepped into the room, cutting Kingsley’s speech short as Harry whirled to face her. His long hair was tangled and hanging loosely around his face, and his thick beard looked almost wild, as if he’d been running his fingers through it against the grain. 

“Hermione,” he said. He sounded confused, as if he had forgotten that she existed until just now, when she had popped back into existence behind him. 

Hermione moved to stand beside him, lacing her fingers through his before leaning down to peer at Kingsley’s head in the green flames of the fireplace. “If you could give us a few minutes.”

“Maybe you can talk some sense into the boy,” Kingsley huffed, and then disappeared before the emerald flames turned white hot once more. 

“I was talking to him,” Harry protested. “That was  _ important _ .” 

She watched him, noting the dark bags beneath his eyes and the exhaustion she saw there. “Have you slept at all?” she asked. 

He looked at her as if she were mad. “Have you?” 

_ Touche _ , she thought. Sighing, she crossed to the closet, pulling out a fresh set of robes for herself and for Harry and laying them on the bed. Her jeans were still damp after the time she had spent traipsing across the country that night, and there were tear stains on her shirt. Slowly, methodically, she began to undress, all the while feeling Harry’s confused gaze on her skin as she at last donned the navy robes and swept her hair up into a haphazard bun that she stuck in place with a jab of her wand. 

“You should change too,” she said at last. “There’s tea on your shirt.” 

“Hermione, what’s going on.” He didn’t budge from his spot near the fire, and Hermione sighed, sinking down to sit on the edge of their bed. “Where have you been? No one would tell me where you disappeared to, and I’ve been here the whole time actually giving a damn, trying to find some solution to—” 

“You mean scouring my dark arts books?” Hermione interrupted. “Did you honestly think anything in those books could be useful in finding her?” 

“They’ll be useful in punishing whoever took her,” he answered darkly.

“Harry, you know you can’t take justice into your own hands like that. There are laws that have to be followed once she’s recovered, and—”

“AT LEAST I WAS DOING  _ SOMETHING _ !” Harry roared. 

Hermione flinched at the sound and then narrowed her gaze. “And by that you mean I wasn’t?” 

“Well you damn well weren’t here,” he answered, and it seemed as if some of the rage that had been burning in him had dissipated, because as he crossed the room and sank down to sit beside her, she thought she heard a whimper, and then— “I needed you here.” 

“Harry,” she soothed, her heart near to breaking as she wrapped both arms around him and lay her head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.” 

He shook as he leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. His voice was muffled. “I’m nineteen goddamned years old. I can’t do this.” 

“Yes, you can,” Hermione protested. 

“What was I thinking?” Harry continued as if he hadn’t heard her, his voice hoarse. “She’s alone again, and probably scared out of her mind, and all I can think is… I’ve failed her.” 

He was shaking now, his shoulders heaving as heavy sobs racked his body and words seemed to escape him. Hermione longed to soothe the hurt he was feeling, and she cursed herself as a coward for not speaking up immediately when she had entered the room. But how did one say what she had been tasked with? How did one give hope to a grieving father when there was no guarantee of a happy ending, however much she might have tried to convince herself that all would be well. How could she swallow her own hurt and terror and be the rock that the father of her child needed in that moment? Was it fair to her that she had to be? 

Another sob from Harry made up her mind in a moment. Hermione Granger had never been able to watch Harry suffer and sit idle, and that wasn’t about to change now. 

“Harry, love,” she said, her voice soothing as she stroked his hair. “I’ve got something to tell you. Can you hear me?” It took more than a minute for him to respond, but when he did it was with a nod. His sobs seemed to have receded somewhat at the sound of her voice, and she leaned closer to whisper in his ear. 

“You have to promise me you’ll keep your head. We can’t afford to be rash now.” 

“What is it?” he asked after another minute more, when his tears had subsided. He looked over at her with red rimmed eyes, tear tracks still visible on his cheeks and trailing down to disappear into his beard. 

Hermione took a deep breath. 

“I think… I think I know where Delphi is.” 

Harry paled, his eyes widening. “What?”

“I think we’ve found where they took her. Ron’s going there now with the other Aurors and—Harry, I’ve come home to take you to the Ministry to wait for word.” 

The stunned expression on Harry’s face was followed by an explosion of motion, and Hermione could only hope that she had done the right thing.

  
  



	39. Chapter 39

The Ministry of Magic

1 November 1999, 5:40am

They took the Floo Network into the atrium of the Ministry one after another. Harry went first and Hermione followed, after which came the Grangers, then Molly and Arthur. All of them trailed after Harry as he strode across the marble floor, the heels of his boots loud across the floor and echoing in the darkness.

"Harry, there you are."

He looked up at the sound of Ron's voice. The redhead was standing in front of the lift, his arms uncrossing and his uniform creased and mussed as if he'd been wearing it for a week. There was a bruise developing high on his cheek and Harry would have winced sympathetically if he hadn't had other things on his mind.

"Where is she?" he demanded, his stride lengthening. He could hear Hermione's cloak swishing behind him as she began to jog slightly in an effort to keep up.

"She's safe," answered Ron. He held out his hands in front of him, palms facing Harry.

"Where is she, Ron?" This time it was Hermione who spoke. She had reached Harry's side and was clutching his arm now.

"She's with a medi-witch in the D.M.L.E."

"She's hurt!?" Harry snapped, pressing the button to call the lift and swearing impatiently.

"No!" Ron shook his head. "She looked fine when I left her. I think they just wanted to be sure she wasn't given any potions before they try to calm her."

The doors of the lift finally opened just as Hermione's parents and the Weasleys reached them. The group stepped inside, and Harry hit the button for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement four times as the doors slid slowly shut once more.

"Did you get them before they—" Harry began, looking behind him at Ron.

His friend nodded, swallowing before speaking again. "They're in the bullpen."

"Still?" Hermione snapped. "Why didn't you move them to—"

"We only just arrived minutes ago, Hermione," Ron interrupted. "We haven't even had a chance to interrogate them."

The doors of the lift opened and Harry barely heard the the witches voice announcing that they had reached level two before he was out and into the door lined corridor, his gaze hard as he scanned for some sign of his daughter. What he saw instead made him clench his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

"Ginny?" It was Arthur who spoke, his confused voice loud in the quiet of the otherwise empty hall. Ginny was standing in a doorway to their left, her face tear streaked and her long red hair in complete disarray. She was wearing a thin, sleeveless shirt, much too cold for the chilly night, and a pair of flannel pyjama bottoms. She looked as if she'd been dragged out of bed unceremoniously and then questioned at length, which Harry knew had probably been the case. In the moment, though, he had trouble mustering any amount of sympathy for the girl.

"Dad? Mum?" Ginny's voice quavered as she realized who was standing there in front of her. She gave a little whimper.

"What on earth is going on?" asked Molly, pushing her way past Harry and Hermione until she was directly in front of her daughter. She looked the young woman up and down, frowning and then glaring back at Ron. "What is she doing here? And without a robe? She'll catch her death in this drafty old place." Molly took her own cloak from around her shoulders and wrapped it around her shivering daughter.

"Griggs and Winchester brought her in," said Ron. "She's fine, mum, but we needed to know whether—"

"She's your sister!" Molly hissed, and she was wrapping her arms around Ginny now as the girl began to sob against her shoulder. "You know what she's been through!" Her tone grew more hushed as she began to murmur to Ginny. "There, there love. Mummy's here."

Harry watched in stunned silence for a moment before shaking his head. "I haven't got time for this," he said, and moved past Molly and Ginny both, not bothering to let his gaze linger on the girl, who only sobbed louder.

"Harry," she called before he had reached the double doors at the end of the hall. He froze at the sound of Ginny's voice, at the memories his name on her lips evoked. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I didn't— I had no idea… I'm sorry."

"Best let him be for now, Ginny," Hermione answered before Harry could even begin to form a response. "I hope you feel better." And then Harry felt Hermione's warm hand on his forearm, through the thin cotton of his shirt. Merlin, the feel of her was like anchor, steadying him, keeping him rooted in himself rather than reeling through the awful thoughts that had been plaguing him every moment since Delphi had been taken.

Ron was whispering furiously to his mother now, and Arthur had joined them next to Ginny, who was shaking. Helen and Frank passed the Wesley's and came to stand beside their daughter. "Should we go through?" her mother asked. Harry nodded once and reached too push the doors open, but before he had the chance they swung inward and a flood of bright light filtered through into the hall, making him wince.

It took him only a few blinks to adjust to the light, and when he had, he felt Hermione's grip on his arm tighten. There, framed in the doorway, were several figures. Two of them—the ones on either side—wore the crimson of the Auror department. Their uniforms were crisp and unsullied, their boots shining. Harry didn't even bother to look at their faces, he was only interested in the person standing between them, still wearing a thick black cloak, this time with the hood thrown back so that Harry could see a face.

He launched himself forward before he could think worse of it. His wand was in his hand but he didn't need it as he tackled the figure backward to land with a thud on the hardwood floors and then began to let his fists fly. His blows landed with satisfying thuds and crunches as his wand clattered to the floor beside them and Harry set about releasing every ounce of anger he had felt since he'd last seen his daughter. One. Two. Three. Four. He would have landed a fifth blow if someone hadn't pulled him off of the prisoner. Harry fought to free himself, to get back to turning the face of the person who had dared touch his daughter into a bloody pancake, but there was more than one person holding him back now, and he could finally hear someone in the room screaming. Good, he thought. He hoped the bastard hurt.

People were shouting, and a sea of red uniforms seemed to spill into the narrow hallway. The first intelligible words Harry could make out again once the blood rushing through his ears had gone from a tsunami to a cresting waves, were from Ron.

"Back off," he was saying as he inserted himself between Harry and someone else. "Back the hell off. You touch him, you bloody well go through me, you got that O'Brien?"

"And me," Hermione added cooly. Her wand was in her hands now, pointed at the Auror, who Harry now recognized.

"He can't just go about pulverizing the suspects face," O'Brien tried to argue, but Ron swore and interrupted him before he could finish.

"He's not a fucking suspect, you witless shite. We caught him red fucking handed."

The black cloaked man was being dragged to his feet now, moaning through what looked like a broken nose and a fractured jaw. Harry's blood rose again and he felt the urge to finish the job. He could kill the bastard, _end_ him for what he had done to Delphi, to him, to the people he—

"Theo?" Ginny's pained cry was enough the distract him for a moment, and Harry threw a glance in her direction. She looked broken, her face pale as she stared in horror at the man she'd spent the last year with.

The two Aurors who had been escorting Nott out were already dragging him forward again, past Harry, and then Ginny. Nott spat in the girl's direction as his toes scrapped the floor. The bloody saliva landed on one of Ginny's bare feet.

"Stupid cunt," he said, his voice high with pain and his words malformed in the air. Ginny flinched and began to cry again. And then Theodore Nott turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Harry. Their gazes met and Nott smiled, his teeth bloody, his eyes already beginning to swell shut.

"You're done, Potter." He taunted. "I'll tell everyone! You and that little bitch won't be able to—"

"STUPEFY!"

Harry flinched at the flash of red light and watched as Nott fell still, slumping between his guards as he was dragged away. He looked in the direction that the spell had come from and found Molly Weasley standing in front of Ginny, her arm extended in Nott's direction, back perfectly straight. She looked as she had upon winning the duel with Bellatrix Lestrange, and Harry thought in that moment that he was very lucky to have found her in this world, and to have been adopted into her family… because he would have hated being on the receiving end of her wrath.

"Don't think he'll be saying much more with his teeth all wonky like that," said Ron after a beat. His mother lowered her wand."Or from Azkaban."

Nott disappeared into the lift, and Harry's gaze snapped back toward the still open double doors.

"Where's Delphi?" he demanded, his knuckles throbbing now.

"Hang on there," said someone else. He wasn't sure who. The hall was chaos with Aurors milling about trying to figure out who to detain and who everyone was and why there was blood splattered on Harry Potter's shirt. He pushed his way through the crowd, Hermione on his heels every inch of the way, until he came face to face with Head Auror Robards, who was glaring thunderously down at him.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" He was shouting, practically frothing with anger. "You can't just assault a man in this department and then—" But his words were cut short when a thin, bushy haired figure approached him before pausing, looking him up and down, and then punching him in the mouth.

Harry watched in awe as Hermione swore, shaking her hand and glaring up at the man she'd just struck.

"I don't give a damn _who_ you are," she spat, "You will let us see our daughter this instant, or I swear to God I will hex you into next week!" And in her other hand, her wand was trained right between his eyes, her gaze unflinching.

"Sir," came Ron's voice again as he inserted himself between his friends and the Head Auror, "let me help you with that. Did I get a chance to tell you what we found at the scene? I've got time now if you do, and my desk's just over here." He led the stunned man away by the arm, and Harry watched them go before scanning the room for some sign—any indication—that Delphi was near.

He couldn't see her anywhere, but he did notice Rita Skeeter on the opposite side of the room, her hands bound behind her. The bitch.

"Mr Potter?"

Harry looked over and found a slight woman with greying hair looking up at him. She wore lime green robes and knew at once that she must be the healer who had come to assess Delphi.

"Where's my daughter?" he rasped.

"She's just through here," the witch motioned toward a door behind her. "Auror Weasley was most insistent that she not be moved until you arrived, but I think we ought to take her to St Mungo's, just to run a few precautionary tests. She appears in good health, but one can never be too— Mr Potter? Mr Potter!"

Harry pushed his way past her, Hermione at his side, ignoring the healer's protests and heading straight toward the room where Delphi waited. It had already been longer than he could abide since he had seen his child, and he wasn't going to wait one Circe cursed minute more.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

The interrogations room was brightly lit and not nearly as crowded as the room they had just left. The window had been obscured and a wizard and two witches crowded around a chair on the far side of the room. There was a child crying, and Hermione's stomach flipped. Harry, who had been by her side, rushed forward at once.

"Delphi!" he cried, shoving the wizard out of the way dropping to his knees in front of the chair, his body blocking Hermione's view. It wasn't until he leaned forward, wrapping his arms around the hysterical child, that Hermione saw her. Her cheeks were tear stained and her face red at she cried with eyes shut tight and her dark curls had fallen down around her face, sticking to her wet cheeks. Hermione wished suddenly that she had helped Harry beat Nott's face to a pulp.

After only a few moments and enough time to take stock of the room, Hermione joined Harry on the ground, throwing her own arms arounds both him and Delphi and letting herself feel the panic and the horror she had been keeping at bay for the entire night. She hadn't been able to fall to pieces when Delphi had been taken, no matter how much she had needed to— but here, with her girl safe in her arms once more—she couldn't stop the tears from flowing. Merlin, the things that could have happened. If Molly hadn't mentioned that Ginny and Theo had broken up, with that steely glint in her eyes that Hermione had seen only once or twice before…

"Daddy,' Delphi cried at last, her tense body relaxing into their embraces. "Mummy."

"Oh Delphi, darling," Harry was raining kisses down onto her cheeks and pulling her closer as the girls sobs settled into whimpers at last. Hermione echoed his words, stroking Delphi's hair and kissing the top of her head.

"We missed you so much," Hermione told her, and then buried her face in the top of her daughter's head, letting her tears soak the glossy curls.

She wasn't sure how long they remained there, kneeling as they wrapped their arms around the most important pieces of their life. By the time Delphi had stopped crying and begun to protest, Hermione's legs had gone numb, and when she rose it was with Delphi on her hip and Harry's arm thrown around them both. After several more seconds, Harry tensed beside her, and Hermione looked up to see what had put him on his guard.

Narcissa Malfoy was standing near the door, her pale robes a wrinkled mess and streaked with what looked like mud

"What's she—" Harry began, but Hermione interrupted him. Her heart was pounding in her chest like cannon blasts and her cheeks were wet with tears in the cool air.

"Thank you," she blurted. "I can't say how much this— It means the world to us that you—" she swallowed. She couldn't make herself form the words. There was a lump in her throat, thick and sharp, like treacle that wouldn't budge. Narcissa nodded all the same.

"I think I've missed something," Harry said beside her, and Hermione tilted her face toward him. The tense, angry lines that had been there for the last several hours were gone now, leaving only confused relief in their wake.

"Narcissa is the one who took the Aurors in to Nott's estate," she said at last, unsure of how she could begin to explain the whirlwind of idea and action that had led them to their daughter again. "She helped bring Delphi back."

Narcissa gave a small, bitter smile. She looked so tired there in the fluorescent light of a room normally reserved for the questioning of dark witches and wizards. There were thin little lines at the corners of her eyes that Hermione hadn't noticed before. "As her predicament was my fault in the first place," Narcissa said, "I could hardly have stood by."

Harry's hand on Hermione's arm tightened and she felt him about to go for his wand.

"No," she interrupted before he could reach for it. "It wasn't." She looked at Harry, whose confusion was evident on his face. She wished that she could say more, but the healers hovering nearby needn't know the details of what had transpired that night. She had barely had enough time to tell Harry that it was Nott who had been the one to take Delphi before they had been hurtling through the Floo and into the ministry. He deserved explanations, and she wanted desperately to give them… but not in front of strangers.

Several silent minutes later, after the Healers had finished their examinations of Delphi and urged Harry to bring her to St. Mungo's soon for a more detailed examination, Ron stepped into the room. He had tidied himself sometime between Hermione punching his boss in the mouth (her hand still ached from the blow) and now, but the bruise on his cheek had continued to darken.

"You lot," he said, pointing to the green robed witches and wizard, "if you're done here, you can go." It took only a minute or so for them to collect all of their things and filter out of the room, leaving Hermione and her family with Ron and Narcissa. Once they had gone, Harry let out a breath and spoke in a low tone so as not to startle Delphi whose eyes where beginning to flutter shut as her head grew heavier on Hermione's shoulder.

"What the hell happened tonight?" he asked.

Ron looked to Hermione, who looked to Narcissa. She worried for a moment or two that she had done the wrong thing that night, going out on her own rather than waiting for Harry to calm, or stopping to talk through her suspicions with Ron before going to Malfoy Manor. She had thought, in the few minutes when she had been left alone in the Malfoy's drawing room waiting for the lady of the manor to descend, that she had made a mistake.

In her arms, Delphi gave a small sigh and all of the tension in her body melted away at once as she fell fast asleep. Hermione knew then that nothing she had done that night could possibly have been wrong, not when it had led to her daughter breathing gently against her once more.

"I went to Malfoy Manor," she said at last. She watched Narcissa swallow and fold her arms across her chest. "When Molly said that Ginny had left Theo…" Hermione remembered the blazing look in the older woman's eyes. "She looked so angry, Harry. I didn't know what had happened, but I thought maybe, just maybe, she had found something out about him that we didn't know, and that if—"

Ron growled by the door, interrupting her. Hermione looked to him: his face had twisted into a hard scowl. "I'll tell you what she found out," he said, sounding murderous. "Nott had been drugging her with potions, the bastard. First a love potion, and then other shite meant to lower her inhibitions so he could…" he didn't seem able to finish the thought aloud. "Fucker was using her. Mum caught him dosing Ginny's drink and nearly killed the prick. Once Gin sobered up she begged Mum not to say anything. Said she was embarrassed and…" He looked as if he might be sick. "And that she wanted to forget any of it had happened."

At once, Hermione understood the look that had been in Molly's eye earlier that night. She'd seen it before when the older woman had told her about her first marriage… to a man who had been a Voldemort supporter. At last, Ginny's behavior since they had left school began to make sense. The sometimes glazed expressions, the preoccupation with Theo at the expense of her other relationships. The uncharacteristic flightyness that had once been a fierce joy for life and determination to succeed. She felt sick to her stomach that none of them had noticed sooner.

"Nott found out about Delphi somehow," Ron continued. "Maybe at the Burrow he heard something that—"

"No," Narcissa interrupted, "I'm afraid Mr Nott's awareness is my fault."

Harry grew still again, his expression unreadable as he stared at Narcissa.

"You?" he asked, taking a single step toward the woman. He sounded dangerous. "You told him?"

"She didn't," soothed Hermione quickly, reaching out with her free hand to touch his arm. She felt him relax beneath her palm.

"Then how the hell did that bastard find out?" Ron looked enraged, as if he might go and rip the knowledge out of Nott himself. His voice echoed in the small room.

Narcissa grew still near the door, her chin level with the ground, her posture poised, and her own expression inscrutable in the way that society wives tended to master very early on.

"His aunt," Narcissa supplied at last, "was the midwife who attended us during Bellatrix's confinement. Her brother was stationed at the manor. Thoros Nott. She… learned more than she ought to have during the labor." Her face twinged for a moment with what looked like regret before returning to the unflappable mask she was so famous for. "Before she was killed, it seems she confided her suspicions in her brother… who we believe shared the rumor with his son before he was killed at Hogwarts."

"Bloody hell," Ron swore, crossing his arms and frowning. "It's like the worlds shittiest game of fellytone."

Harry continued to stare at Narcissa, his brows still knitted together. "That still doesn't explain how he knew that Delphi was the child, or even _why_ he would have wanted to take her tonight." He was thinking like an Auror again, Hermione realized. She hoped it was a good sign.

"When we brought him in he was raving about how you'd ruined his life." Ron spoke slowly now, his frown deepening as if he were trying to find just the right words. "No one took him seriously when he started ranting about Delphi being…You-Know-Who's." He shivered, "It was clear he hated you. Said you deserved to hurt for what you'd done to his father. Then, when we found Skeeter trying to sneak out the back, she—"

"I should have known that cockroach was involved," Hermione spat, not bothering to hide even an ounce of her contempt. She should have left the beetle in its jar to rot. She wouldn't make the mistake again.

"She wasn't until recently," said Ron. Harry looked up at him sharply as he continued. "And she started spilling her guts as soon as we laid eyes on her."

"What did she say?" asked Harry, voice honed to a razor edge. Ron shrugged.

"Nott approached her months ago with questions about you and Delphi."

"She knew?" Harry sounded incredulous.

"Don't think so. Nott didn't bring her into his plans until after she'd been fired from the _Prophet_. I'm not even sure he told her what he knew about Delphi."

"The bitch." Hermione's eyes widened and she looked up to see Narcissa, who had spoken, her normally cool and controlled features hot with fury. Ron and Harry gave the woman a surprised glance and Hermione felt something shift inside of her. She had had only a few moments to consider the room she had stood in while waiting for Narcissa that night, between worrying over Harry and longing for Delphi. She had wondered then whether Narcissa had kept the carpet with Hermione's bloodstain as a trophy, or as a reminder to torture herself with. She thought she might know the answer now.

"Yeah," said Ron after the shock had subsided, "that she is."

There were several more seconds of silence before Harry spoke again. "How worried do we need to be about the truth coming out?" Hermione winced at the question. "How many Auror's were at the scene?"

Hermione watched Ron as he considered the question before he finally shook his head and answered. "I can't see anyone taking Nott seriously. He looked bloody mad, and everyone in the department knows Skeeter's about as reliable as Peeves. I wager they'll chalk the motive up to revenge and ignore the details. Nott wasn't marked, but his father was, and that's good enough reason to let him rot in Azkaban these days." Hermione cast a quick glance in Narcissa's direction. The woman had stiffened but said nothing. "And after what he did to Ginny— well, it's clear he was trying to hurt you from the beginning, and when using her didn't get to you the way he expected, it makes sense he'd have gone for your daughter."

"So what, he _guessed_ about her connection to Lestrange?"

It sounded laughable even to Hermione's ears when said so plainly, but behind the absurdity lay the terrifying possibility that is was true, and that given the chance and the right connections, _anyone_ could guess the same.

"If he knew that a child had been born to Bellatrix, and that the child was left unaccounted for after war…" Narcissa let out a soft sigh. "It is not outside the realm of possibility, Mr Potter."

"It explains the blackmail." Hermione met Harry's gaze, her voice raspy. "Nott was well off, he didn't need the money. But when we paid it..."

She saw the horror dawning in Harry's eyes.

"We confirmed his suspicions." Harry swore, and in Hermione's arms, the now sleeping Delphi stirred before settling back into stillness.

Ron nodded where he stood near the door. "It makes sense. And with Ginny doing his bidding, he would have known the circumstances of her adoption."

"It is possible that it was ill luck and vengeance," Narcissa supplied, her voice soft as she watched Delphi. Hermione could see the emotions whirling through her eyes, still expressive despite the effort the woman put in to keeping her thoughts from her face. "And yet…" Her voice trailed off.

"What?" Hermione asked. Delphi's breathe warmed the fabric over her shoulder, and Hermione stroked the girl's back.

Narcissa looked up at her, those blue eyes full of concern. "Guard her secret to the best of your ability, Miss Granger… but I would plan for the day when you can keep it no longer."

"Why?" asked Ron, sounding angry now. Hermione watched as he took a step toward the blonde woman. "You planning on running your mouth, Malfoy?"

Narcissa glanced up at him sharply. "I'm confident I know the meaning of the word discretion far better than _you_ , Mr Weasley. I only mean that secrets like this—the ones we pray to the gods will never see the light of day—have a way of surfacing before we are prepared."

"You'd know," Ron retorted, eye's sparking with anger.

"Yes," confirmed Narcissa softly, "I would." The spark in the woman's eyes dulled just slightly, and Hermione felt pity for her then.

Before anyone else could speak the door to the interrogation room swung open. Kingsley stood against the backdrop of the bullpen, his arms crossed and his mouth set into a hard line.

"Potter," he said, "Please tell me Robards was exaggerating when he told me you assaulted our suspect."

Hermione watched as Harry straightened his spine and his eyes turned into cold, glittering emeralds. He looked every inch the Auror, even in his tea splattered cotton shirt and old traveling cloak. "If anything, he was minimizing the situation, Minister."

Kingsley stared Harry for several seconds, as if he couldn't quite decide on a response, and then his expression melted into one of tired sympathy and he ran a hand over the top of his shiny head.

"Merlin's ballsack, I'm too young for this shite."

Beside him, Narcissa looked scandalized.

"Go home, Potter. Take your girl with you and don't come back until after Nott and Skeeter have been sentenced. You can work again when there's no one else here you're liable to murder…" he paused, his gaze landing on Delphi and lingering for several seconds before he looked back at Harry. "We'll sort the rest then."

They stared at one another for several seconds after that, the Minister for Magic and the Chosen One, as if they were trying to read one another's minds. At last, Harry nodded. Perhaps he had seen something to reassure him in Kingsley's gaze.

Hermione followed Harry out of the room with Ron on her heels and Narcissa Malfoy at her side. Delphi slept peacefully, her cheek on Hermione's shoulder and her dark curls tickling her neck. As they made their way through the Auror's desks and out of the oak doors that led to the lift, Hermione took in the scene. Skeeter wasn't there any longer, and the flurry of activity had lessened somewhat since she had gone. The red jacketed men and women who remained smiled at she and Harry as they passed, a few calling out to them.

"So glad they found her, Potter."

"Sweet girl will be just fine, don't you worry."

"I'd have killed the fucker if it'd been me, Potter. Robards needs to pull his head out his arse."

The accusations of two criminals, it seemed, had been wholly ignored by the Aurors who had apprehended them, and Delphi's secret deemed too outlandish to be true. Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as the doors closed behind them and Harry pressed the button to summon the lift.

 _Thank God,_ she thought. Thank God for that, and for Harry who had saved her from sending a deadly Crucio in Nott's direction when he had launched himself at the scum. Thank God for Narcissa Malfoy, who, under her icy exterior, had a beating heart… But most of all, thank God for Delphi, safe in her arms at last, a piece of her soul restored.

The rest of it would be a problem for another day.


	40. Chapter 40

The Burrow 

24 December 1999

They didn’t leave their house again for weeks, and by the time Harry and Hermione felt up for another outing, it was Christmas Eve and time for the annual Weasley party. Harry had been inclined to miss it, but Hermione understood that his reticence had more to do with taking Delphi outside of the safety of their heavily warded home than it did any desire to avoid their friends. In the end, she had been able to convince him to go by promising another week of reclusivity to follow. 

The dinner was well attended, with all the usual guests around the table, as well as a couple of new faces. Oliver Wood sat next to Charlie, beaming in a way Hermione had never seen him beam before. His cheeks looked ruddy, as if he’d only just stepped off a broom, and their color deepened every time Charlie glanced in his direction, eyes smouldering. 

On the other end of the table, to Andromeda’s left, sat Narcissa. It had taken several invitations to make the woman believe she was actually wanted at the Burrow. In the end, the final invitation had been delivered not by owl, but in the hands of a determined Molly Weasley, who had brought with her an entire pie and a bottle of elvish wine. Narcissa had accepted the invitation a day later, on the condition that she not be expected to stay the entire evening. The woman’s husband was, after all, still under house arrest, and she wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving him completely alone the night before Christmas, not when their son was spending the holiday in Lancashire with his fianceé’s family.

For her part, Hermione had chosen a trio of seats near the end of the long table, maneuvering Delphi and Harry until they stood directly beside Ginny, who looked up, startled. 

“Seat taken?” 

Ginny stammered and Hermione settled Delphi onto the middle chair as Harry nodded at his former girlfriend and sank into the seat on their daughter’s other side.

“Ginny,” he acknowledged, and Hermione thought the smile on his face was far more genuine than she had expected. What a relief. 

“I—I can go, if you want me to, I mean. I don’t want to ruin your holiday.” 

Hermione sank down into her own chair and gave Ginny a confused look. 

“Why on earth would you do that?” 

“I just— I mean, I know it can’t be comfortable for you with me here.” She swallowed and glanced down at her hands. “After what I did.”

“And what was that, exactly?” asked Harry. Hermione shot him a dirty look, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. His gaze was riveted on Ginny, curious and expectant. 

The poor girl nearly swallowed her tongue before managing to get her answer out. 

“I let Theo into your life,” she said, voice small. “I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know what he... And I never meant to hurt anyone.” 

“That bastard wasn’t your fault.” Harry’s tone was firm, the sort of voice he used when he was forbidding Delphi to play on the stairs. “He fooled everyone, and knowing what he did to worm his way in…Well. I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to beat a person so badly in my whole life.” 

“Try to curb your violent tendencies, Harry, it’s Christmas.” Hermione reached over and stroked his arm affectionately, allowing Ginny some time to collect herself before turning back to her as Harry diverted his attention to Neville, who sat on his other side. 

“He means it, you know,” she whispered, once Harry was engaged in conversation and she was confident he wouldn’t hear. 

Ginny looked startled. “I don’t think—” she stumbled again, and the little affectation grew monumental in Hermione’s eyes. What the hell had Theo done to her, that she’d gone from the confidant and self-assured quidditch champion, to this woman who could barely finish a thought without correcting herself? “I’m not sure why he’s not more angry.”

“Look,” said Hermione. “I realize this probably isn’t something you want to discuss, but Ron told us what  _ he _ did.” 

Ginny’s face blanched, her freckles growing stark against porcelain skin. 

“And I only bring it up because I want you to understand that we could never blame you for what happened. No matter how you feel about it, Harry and I know who's really to blame, and right now there are hundreds of miles, a deadly sea, and enchanted bars between us and him.” She patted Ginny’s shoulder as the girl began to breathe again. “Now, help me to eat some of these potatoes before your mother starts force-feeding the both of us. I don’t like the way she’s eyeing me.” 

It took several more minutes before Ginny seemed to thaw beside her, and even then the conversation was stilted, the gaps between her words conspicuous. 

Hermione thought Harry might have the right idea about turning Nott into pulp. 

Ginny retired early for the night, and Neville watched her go, Hermione looking on. She hadn’t realized the young man still carried a torch for the girl, but she hoped desperately that when the time came, and Ginny was doing better, she would give him a chance. She thought Neville might be just the sort of man Ginny could get along with after her ordeal. Someone kind, and good, and completely willing to wait. 

“There’s Narcissa leaving.” Harry’s voice was low in her ear and it sent a pleasant rumble through her. She followed his gaze to see the woman standing, arms at her sides and a ruffled look on her face as Molly wrapped her in hug. Andromeda stood and drew Molly’s attention, saving her sister from further contact by handing over Teddy and asking Molly to mind him while she walked Narcissa out. 

“I’ll be just a minute,” said Hermione, standing to follow them out. “I didn’t get a chance to say more than hello to her.” 

“We’ll be here.” Harry smiled at her, and Delphi had a bite of pudding. 

The night air was crisp and it sank right through her thin outfit to her bones, cold as a basilisk’s heart and twice as biting. She followed the path the two other women had taken at a jaunt until she spotted them at the edge of the garden. 

“Hang on,” she called. “I wanted a word before you went.” 

Andromeda was the first to turn, and she smiled when she saw Hermione hurrying up the path. 

“I’m not leaving just yet, dear.” 

“Oh, I know. I was talking to Mrs Malfoy, actually.” 

Narcissa turned, her brows arched delicately as her sister tried to hide her own look of surprise. 

“Right, well, I’ll be off then, won’t I?” said Andromeda, leaning in to give Narcissa a brief hug and a barely there kiss on her cheek. “I’ll see you for New Years, Cissy.” 

Narcissa murmured her ascent and watched as her sister retreated back into the house. Hermione took the opportunity to cast a warming charm over both she and Narcissa that took most of the bite out of the chill air.

“Thank you.” 

Hermione nodded and smiled. 

“I only wanted to give you this,” she said, stowing her wand away and drawing a small package out of her pocket. She held it out toward the other woman. 

For a moment, Narcissa looked absolutely shocked, but she quickly recovered her composure and reached out to take the little gift, her cool fingers skimming the tips of Hermione’s as she did so. 

“Thank you, Miss Granger.” She said. “I’m afraid I didn’t think to bring something in return.” 

“Oh, there’s no need for that.” She hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Though, you could call me Hermione.” 

For the second time in as many minutes, the older woman’s eyes widened in surprise. Hermione took a certain amount of satisfaction at the sight. 

Narcissa looked back down at the parcel in her hands, as if she were trying to decide what to do with it. 

“Oh, please open it.” Hermione urged. “It’s not much, but I do love seeing people open their gifts.” 

Narcissa nodded and gave her a tight little smile before drawing out her wand and vanishing the wrapping paper. 

Hermione stared, agape. 

“Takes a bit of the magic out of it, doesn’t it?”

Narcissa looked confused and Hermione didn’t elaborate, she just motioned for the woman to continue. 

The small velvet box was open in another moment, and in the second after that, Hermione had the pleasure of seeing genuine surprise on Narcissa Malfoy’s face for the third time that night. 

“We found it in one of Harry’s vaults. I recognized the crest from Nature’s Nobility—horrible book, that—and we thought you might appreciate it more than we could. I’m sorry we didn’t get to the shops for something new. I’m sure if this is a miss we can put it back and find something more—”

“This is my grandmother’s ring.” 

Narcissa, always proper and polite, interrupted Hermione and stared at her in consternation. 

“Is it? I hadn’t realized. I knew it was a Black heirloom, of course, but I thought maybe farther back.” 

“Why are you doing this?” 

“I’m sorry?”

Narcissa looked almost as confused as she did indignant. 

“The gift. The ring. Why?”

“Umm.” Hermione tucked her hands into her pockets. “It’s Christmas?”

“I was under the impression you and your man didn’t care for my family,” Narcissa continued. “So why are you suddenly being… familiar?” 

Hermione tried not to be offended at the accusation in the woman’s question. She had to allow for the fact that society ladies like Mrs Narcissa Malfoy, especially ones with death eater husbands, were probably unlikely to have had many real friends in their life. 

“We’re grateful, is all. For what you did to help us find Delphi. I had hoped…” She looked around, checking the garden for any signs they weren’t alone. Finding none, she continued. “I’d hoped that, as we’re connected in some way, we could be friendly. We’d like to know you better. We’d like Delphi, to know you better.” 

“The Minister kept your secret,” Narcissa dismissed. “Any connection is buried deep.” 

Hermione took a breath and nodded. “Yes, but as you said at the Ministry, secrets have a way of surfacing before we’re prepared.” She had known it was true the moment Narcissa had spoken the words, and she and Harry had discussed it at length. Kingsley might be willing to keep his mouth shut, but what if someone else discovered the truth? Anything could happen, and it made sense to prepare for the day. 

“Besides,” Hermione continued, “I’m used to liking difficult people. What’s one more?” 

And then, in a move that turned the tables completely and had Hermione looking surprised for once, Narcissa Malfoy laughed. 

She giggled and chortled and clutched her side, and Hermione was fairly certain she heard a snort before the woman was able to contain herself. When she was done, she snapped the ring box closed and slipped it into the pocket of her fancy robes, beaming down at Hermione as she did so. 

“Thank you,” she said. “I shall cherish it.” 

Suddenly discomfited, Hermione nodded and smiled. “Our pleasure.” 

They stood in silence for several seconds more before Narcissa spoke again. 

“Was there anything else?” 

“No.” Hermione shook her head and took a small step back. “Happy Christmas. Please give our best to your family, Mrs Malfoy.” 

“Narcissa,” the other woman corrected. “If I’m to call you by your given name, it’s hardly appropriate for you to do otherwise.” 

“Narcissa,” Hermione agreed, grinning. 

“Hermione.” Narcissa gave her a look that was almost a smirk, and Hermione remembered for a moment punching a face that had worn an expression nearly identical to it.

And then Narcissa strode away, taking the ring box and the almost smirk with her and disappearing beyond the hedge. 

*** * ***

4 Cerridwen Court, Godric’s Hollow

24 December 1999

They were still wrapping presents at a quarter to midnight. Hermione had insisted on doing it the Muggle way, and though Harry was rubbish at wrapping things, he was an artisan with spellotape, and wielded it with all the fervor of a man out to stick things together. Hermione cut the paper and folded it in mysterious ways until the gifts looked pristine, and then Harry swooped in to tape them up and slap a bow on top. He was beginning to think that was an excellent metaphor for their entire friendship thus far. 

“Just there, below my finger. Mind you don’t crinkle it this time. I want a nice, smooth seal.” 

“I do know how to tape, Hermione.” 

“Yes. Excellent job. My you’ve gotten good at that.” 

He had a mind to take her into his arms and show her what else he’d gotten good at, but he thought she might hex him stupid if he didn’t let her finish the last few gifts. 

“Bow, please.” 

He sprang into action and affixed the thing to the top of the present before carrying it over to set under the tree. And by under the tree, he meant six feet away from the tree, which was as close as he could get it without setting it precariously on top of other gifts 

“Do you think…” he let his voice trail off.

“What? What is it?” She sounded absent minded, as if all her focus and considerable concentration were taken up by her task. 

“I just was wondering whether you thought we might have gone a bit… overboard. With the presents.” 

Hermione paused and blinked up at him before surveying the massive pile of red and green parcels. 

“Looks right to me,” she said. We do have presents for one another under there too. And the gifts for my mum and dad. And Molly and Andromeda sent their things along tonight as well. 

“Right. Don’t mind me then.” 

He could feel her eyes on him still, and he fidgeted. 

“You don’t have to worry about spoiling her, you know. She’s not actually Duddly’s. And besides, I don’t think being a demanding git is genetic unless you’re a Malfoy.”

Harry laughed. 

“I just want her to have everything she needs. Everything she wants, too, come to that.” 

“We’ll strike a balance.” Hermione went back to her wrapping and Harry watched as her fingers moved over the paper. 

How did she manage to look so perfectly lovely at this time of night, in a thick old Weasley jumper and a pair of pajama bottoms that were dotted in miniature reindeer and about a hundred tiny sleighs? Her hair was piled on top of her head, her wand stuck through it and pining it all in place as a few curls escaped to trail down the back of her neck. On her finger, his ring glinted in the firelight. 

“Don’t suppose you want to take a break?” 

She looked at him askance. 

“I’ve only got four more, and it’s almost midnight.” 

He moved back to sit beside her leaving his roll of spellotape across the room and reaching out to toy with one of her loose curls as she continued to fold and crease the paper. 

“They’ll keep,” he said, and his voice was low… husky. He wanted to shag her, and he hoped she wanted the same. 

She kept folding, but he felt the way her neck went all loose and it gave him hope. 

“You know,” she said, all casual like, “when I was growing up my parents had this tradition.” 

“Did they?”

“Mhm. We opened a single present on Christmas Eve. It was always pajamas.” 

“That’s nice.” He ran a finger along the shell of her ear and felt the way she shivered. 

“I’ll let you open a present tonight too, if you like.” Her voice was low and sultry and he hardened almost instantaneously.

Would he ever. 

He leaned in to kiss her neck, but before he reached her, she spoke again. 

“As soon as you let me finish wrapping these.” 

“You minx!”

Hermione laughed, and the sound was music and seduction all at once. She reached back and tugged at the wand in her hair, letting the curls fall down in a coil before they sprang back into the somewhat manageable mass she’d learned how to semi-tame.

A flick of her wand had her gift spellotaped shut, and another had the other three gifts wrapping themselves in a matter of moments. 

“There,” she said once they were piled neatly with the rest. “All done.” 

She stood, and he followed, reaching round with one arm and pulling her back against him so that she could feel how very much he wanted her. 

“Is it time for my present now?”

She hummed. “Now who’s spoiled and demanding?” 

He kissed the side of her neck, let the tip of his tongue sweep across it until he reached her earlobe and began to suck. She nestled back against him in response and gave a little whimper. 

“Alright,” she said at last, “Since you’ve been a very good boy this year.” 

He started unwrapping her immediately, eager to get at his gift. 

Merlin, she was precious. One of the two best presents he’d ever received. He had no idea what he’d done to deserve someone like her. 

He tugged at her jumper, turning her in his arms until they were facing each other. He didn’t even bother to look as he tore it over her head and pushed her bottoms down, he was too eager to kiss her again… But Hermione put one of her small, warm hands on his chest, right over his heart, and waited. 

His eyes fluttered open and the first thing he saw was her smile, genuine and gorgeous and enough to bring him to his knees. 

“What do you think?” She asked.

“What?”

“Of the pajamas.”

And then he let his gaze wander, taking in the lace and the satin and the Gryffindor colors bold against her skin. 

Holy God, was that a snitch between her breasts? Merlin’s left bollock, it was. And there, just over the bow of her thong. Another one. 

“Are going to be okay? You sound as if you’re hyperventilating.” 

“Fucking hell,” was all he could think to say before he had her pulled against him again, her body warm and flawless as her laughter chimed and Harry thought he might be the luckiest bastard in the world. 

He was blessed beyond measure with a daughter and woman who was daft enough to want to marry him, and he knew that he could open a thousand gifts in the future, but none would come close to matching that. 

  
  



End file.
